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WILLIAM TELL 



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IN PIVE ACTS. 



V*7 



By JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES, Esq. 



FIRST PERFORMED AT THE 



©fKatre &o#al ©rurp &ane, 



MAY 11, 1825. 



LONDON : 

PUBLISHED BY THOMAS DOLBY, 1/, CATHERINE STREET, STRAND. 
Price Three Shillings and Sixpence. 



?£4r° 



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3-)H-g£S 






T. Dolby, Printer, Catherine Street, Strand. 



DEDICATION 



TO GENERAL MINA 



ILLUSTRIOUS MAN, 



TO YOU I DEDICATE THE PLAY 



WILLIAM TELL. 



WHO WILL DEMAND MY REASONS? 



JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES. 



GLASGOW, MAY 6, 1825. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



AUSTRIANS. 

Gesler, Governor of the Waldstelten, 

Samera, his Lieutenant, - - - - 

Struth, his Seneschal, - 

Rodolph, \ | 

Lutold, \ his Castellains, - ~ " < 

Gerard, J ( 

Braun, Servant to the Seneschal, 

Anneli, Step-daughter to the Seneschal, - 

Agnes, her Cousin, - - 

Archers, fyc. fyc. fyc 

SWISS. 

William Tell, 

Albert, his Son, - - - - - - 

Melchtal, ErnVs Father, - 

Erni, V i 

Furst, \ Patriots in league with Tell y J 

Verner, J ^ 

Waldraan, a Burgher of Altorf, - - - 

Michael, his Son, - 

Jagheli, Michael's Friend, 



Pierre, "J 
Theodore, } 

Savoyards 

Emma, TelVs Wife, 



Inhabitants of Altorf, 



Mr. Archer. 
Mr. Thomson. 
Mr. Gattie. 
Mr. Comer. 
Mr. Howell. 
Mr. Fenton. 
Mr. Knight. 
Miss Povey. 
Mrs. Yates. 



Mr. Macready. 
Miss C- Fisher. 
Mr. Younge. 
Mr. Webster. 
Mr. Armstrong. 
Mr. Mercer, 
Mr. Hughes. 
Mr. Wallack. 
Mr. Penley. 
Mr. Yarnold. 
Mr. O. Smith. 
Master Edmonds. 

Mr. FlTZ WILLIAM. 

Mr. Foster. 
Mrs. Bunn. 



Burghers, Mountaineers, fVomen, 8$c. 
SCENE — Altorf and the neighbouring Mountains. 



-KUT 



A -m/r rmr-i w 



jJLi. 




"WILLIAM TELL, 

Act S^Scem 3'':/ 

T/:jJ., HF.FOLD YE ARE FREE. 



of Altorf. 



K /lead a life 
* /his, 

ie boy, 
eless name 
id games, 
ig as thou 
t comes of 

thee place 

esteem ? 

hairs ? 
Father ! 

run 

5, which 
t a child, 
e a man, 
; call'd 



irvey those 



i mnK oi the tyrants whom they lodge, and then 

A 



DRAMATIS PERSONS 



Gesler, Gover 
Sarnem, his L 
Struth, his Se; 
Rodolph, \ 
Lutold, \ / 
Gerard, j 
Braun, Serva 
Anneli, Slep-t 
Agnes, her C 



William Tell 
Albert, his S t 
Melchtal, Ei 
Erni, 
Furst, 
Verner, 
Waldraan, a 
Michael, his 
Jagheli, Mic 
Pierre, 
Theodore, 



J 



,} 



Savoyards 
Emma, TelVi 

SCEN 



WILLIAM TELL. 



ACT I. 



SCENE I.— The Outside of the Castle of Altorf. 
Alpine Scenery in the bach Ground. 

Enter Waldman and Michael. 

Wald. Don't tell me, Michael 1 , thou dost lead a life 
As bootless as a jester's — worse than his, 
For he has high retaining. Every one 
Calls thee his fool — the gallant and the boy, 
The gentle-born and base! Thy graceless name 
Is ever tagg'd to feasts, and shows, and games, 
And saucy brawls, which men as young as thou 
Discourse of with grave looks. What comes of 

this ? 
Will 't make thee rich ? Will 't give thee place 

in life? 
Will't buy thee honour, friendship, or esteem? 
Will 't get thee reverence against gray hairs ? 
Mich. Father ! 

Wald. The current of thy life doth counter run 
To that of other men's. " Thy spirits, which 
" Were reason in thee, when thou wast a child, 
u As tameless still, now thou'rt beceme a man, 
" Are folly ! thriftless life, that may be call'd 
" More rational when in the nurse's lap 
" Than when in manhood's chair." Survey those 

towers, 
And act the revel o'er of yesternight. 
Think of the tyrants whom they lodge, and then 



2 WILLIAM TELL. [acx I. 

Link hands with fools and braggarts o'er their 

wine, 
Fancy the sounds their dungeons hear, and tell 
Of such and such a jest of thine, that made 
Thy wanton comrades roar. 

Mich. Dear father! 

Wald. Pshaw ! 

Thou canst not try to speak with gravity, 
But one perceives thou wagg'st an idle tongue; 
Thou canst not try to look demure, but, spite 
Of all thou dost, thou show'st a laugher's cheek: 
Thou canst not e'en essay to walk sedate, 
But in thy very gait one sees the jest, 
That 's ready to break out in spite of all 
Thy seeming. 

Mich. I'm a melancholy man, 

That can't do that which with good will I would ! 
I pray thee, father, tell me what will change me ? 

Wald. Change thee! 

Hire thyself to a sexton, and dig graves : 
Never keep company but at funerals : 
Beg leave to take thy bed into the church, 
And sleep there : fast, until thine abstinence 
Upbraid the anchorite with gluttony ; 
" List to the music of a passing bell" — 

Mich. But if 

The bells, that ring as readily for joy 
As grief, should chance to ring a merry peal — 

Wald. Then take the rope, 

And hang thyself: [crosses] I know no other way 
To change thee. 

Mich. Nay, I '11 do some great feat yet. 

Wald. You '11 do some great feat ! Take me Gesler's 
castle ! 

Mich. Humph! that would be a feat, indeed! — I'll 
doit! 

Wald. You'll do it? you'll get married, and have 
children, 
And be a sober citizen, before 
You pare your bread o' the crust. You'll do it? 

You '11 
Do nothing! Live till you are a hundred, 



scene I.] WILLIAM TELL. S 

When death shall catch you, 'twill be laughing. 

Doit? 
Look grave, talk wise, live sober, thou wilt do 
A harder thing, but that thou 'It never do. [Exit 

Waldman.] 
Mich, [solus.] Hard sentence, that ! Dame Nature! 

gentle mother, 
If thou hast made me of too rich a mould 
To bring the common seed of life to fruit, 
Is it a fault? Kind Nature, I should lie 
To say it was. Who would not have an eye 
To see the sun, where others see a cloud ; 
A skin so temper'd as to feel the rain, 
Gave other men the ague, him refresh'd ; 
A frame so vernal, as, in spite of snow, 
To think it genial summer all year round ; 
And bask himself in bleak December's scowl, 
While other's sit and shiver o'er a hearth? 
I do not know the fool would not be such 
A man ! Shall I upbraid my heart because 
It hath been so intent to keep me in 
An ample revenue of golden mirth, 
It hath forgot to hoard the duller coin 
The world doth trade on? No, not I, not I. 
Yet here comes that, despite my wealth of mirth, 
Can make a beggar of me ! Father, could 
You see me now, you 'd find me sans a smile 
In all my jester's scrip. 

Enter Gesler's Archers, escorting some Swiss Pea- 
sants, Prisoners to the Castle, across the Stage, 
and enter a porch, Tell at a short distance, follow* 
ing them. 

Tell, [to Michael, who is looking after them.] Do you 

know them ? 
Mich, No. 

Tell. Nor I, thank heaven ! How like you that ? 
Mich. What? 
Tell. That? 

Mich. I like it not. 

Tell. It might as well be you or I. 
Mich. It might. 



4 WILLIAM TELL. [act i. 

Tell. Do you live in Altorf ? 

Mich. Yes. 

Tell. How go they on 

In Altorf? 

Mich. As you see. What was a sight 

A month ago, hath not the wonder now 
To draw them 'cross the threshold ! 

Tell. Would you like— 

Mich. What would't thou say to me ? 

Tell. No matter, friend. 

Something so slight, that in the thinking on 't 
'Twas gone.— The field of Grutli, Tell !-- the 

hour's 
At head ! The spirits are expecting thee 
Shall bring thy country back the times again 
She 'd wonder this to see ! [going. ,] 

Mich. Stay, friend ! a word. 

If of my mind thou haply art, and think'st, 
When fortune will not make us theme of mirth, 
Ourselves may take the task in hand — 

Tell For what? 

Good day. [Exit hastily. 

Mich. Acquaintance briefly broke as made! 

Take Gesler's castle, did my father say? 
Would I were well within the ramparts, and 
At large as now! — I might do such a thing. — 
Soft! Who comes here ? Jagheli ! Ha! a youth 
That's tender as a love-sick damsel's sigh. 
What brings him sighing here ? The Seneschal 
Has a fair daughter! Friend Jagheli, mind 
Thy secret ! Half on 't I have got already 
Without thy leave; the rest thyself shalt give me. 

[Retires. 

Enter Jagheli and Savoyard. 

Jag. You know the air, I'm sure! 'tis very sweet : 
The young musician who composed it loved ; 
But 'twas a bootless flame! — You must have 

heard 
The story ? It is said he taught the lady, 
Who was of high degree, and made that strain 
To sing to her the love he dared not speak: — 



scfne I.] WILLIAM TELL. 5 

Do n't you remember it ? — Draw thy hand 
Across the strings, and wake thy saddest chord, 
Perchance 'twill mind me of it. Thou hast hit it : 
See if the rhymes I've strung for it agree. 

[ Savoyard sings . 
Lady, why are you so fair? 

Though to love is madness, still 
Who beholds you can't forbear, 

But adores against his will. 

Reason warns the heart in vain; 

Headlong passion won't obey: 
Hope's deceived, and sighs again; 

Love 's abjured, yet holds its sway. 

Mich. [Coming forward.'] I pray you have the ditty 
o'er again ! 
Of all the strains that mewing minstrels sing, 
The lover's one for me. I could expire 
To hear a man, with bristles on his chin, 
Sing soft with upturn'd eyes and arched brows, 
Which talk of trickling tears that never fall. 
Let 's have it o'er again. 

Jag. To make thee mirth ? 

When I 'm thy lacquey, honest Michael, I '11 
Provide thee music. There, with thanks to boot. 

[Gives money. 
I an not in thy pay. [Exit Savoyard 

Mich. No ; but I mean 

To take thee into it. — Wilt thou hire with me? 
Nay, hang thy coyness, man ! Why, thinkest thou 
Thou art the only man in Altorf knows 
The Seneschal has a fair daughter? 

Jag. Fair 

Or not, she's naught to me. 

Mich. Indeed? O, then 

I '11 tell her so ! 
I pray thee tell me, hath she not black teeth ? 

Jag. Thou know'st 'twould take the pearl to challenge 
them. 

Mich. Her nose, I think, is somewhat set awry ? 

Jag. It sits like dignity on beauty's face. 



6 WILLIAM TELL, [act i. 

Mich. Her hair is a dull black? 

Jag. 'Tis shining gold ! 

Mich. Her figure 's squat ? 

Jag. Betwixt the full and slim. 

A mould where vie the richest charms of both ! 
Mich. Well, then, she hobbles in her gait? 
Jag. She moves the light and flexible chamois, 

If you could lend the chamois her beauty, 

And add to that her modest stateliness. 
Mich. You are a hopeful painter, sir ! How well 

You've drawn the daughter of the Seneschal ! 
Jag. Good Michael, thou 'rt a jester; but thou 'rt kind. 

Thy mirth doth feast at every man's expense; 

Yet with such grace of frankest confidence, 

That none begrudge thee. Wilt thou be my friend ? 

I love the daughter of the Seneschal! 

Help me to see her. 
Mich. Come to church with me 

Next Sunday. 
Jag. I was there last Sunday, Michael — 

And Sunday before last — and Sunday, too, 

Preceding that. 
Mich. How wondrously devout thou 'rt grown of late ! 

Thou 'It have a name for most rare sanctity ! 
Jag. Good Michael, canst thou help me ? 
Mich If I knew 

The lady. 
Jag. What ! dost thou not know her, then ? 

With what impediments is love environ'd ! 

Why— 
Mich. Why that 's love's gain ; it would not else 

be love. 

They know not love who need but woo to wed, 

But they who fain would wed, but dare not woo ! 

That's to be sound in love — to feel it from 

The heart's deep centre to the fingers' ends. 

As sweetest fruit is that which is forbid, 

So fairest maid is she that is withheld. 

When I do fall in love, I '11 pick a maid 

Whose sire has vow'd her to a nunnery ; 

And she shall have, moreover, for her warders 

Two maiden aunts past wooing; and to these 



scene I.] WILLIAM TELL. 7 

I'll add an Abigail, has bridesmaid stood 
To twenty younger cousins, yet has ne'er 
Been ask'd herself; and under her I '11 set 
A male retainer of the family 
For twenty years or more — as surly as 
A mastiff on the chain ; and, that my fair 
May lack no sweet provocative of love, 
Her tempting lattice shall be grated, and 
Her bower shall be surrounded with a wall 
Full ten feet high, on which an iron row 
Of forked shrubs shall stand and beckon me — 
And then I '11 be a lover. 

Jag. Show me how 

Thou 'd'st win thy love by winning mine for me. 

Mich. Hush! here's the servant of the Seneschal; 
A dog he sends on errands without brains 
To take them half a yard. — What! would'st 

attempt 
To win the daughter of the Seneschal ? 
Would'st enter Gesler's castle? 

Jag. Yes ! 

Mich. The man — 

The very man for me ! — Aside and mark ! 

[They retire. 



Enter Braun/7'ow porch. 

Braun. Three yards of buckram — right! Thread 

thereunto — 
But how much thread? — a hank? — a hank's too 

much 
To sew three yards of buckram ! — It must be 
Askein. A skein it is.— Right there ! What next? 
Twelve buckles, Avith the straps — that is, twelve 

straps. 
O very right ! In the fourth place, a score 
Of needles — twenty needles to the score. 
I'm right again, by that ! And lastly — what 
Comes lastly ? Something is behind, I know, 
For I bethought me of my fingers to 



WILLIAM TELL. [act r. 



Enter Seneschal. 



Remember, there were five things I should get ; 
And what's the fifth ? Or, have I counted wrong ? 
There's buckram, one, — thread, two ; a skein of 

thread, 
Twelve buckles, and the straps — the straps and 

they 
Do go together — three : the fourth thing is 
A score of needles. There 's my little finger 
Remaining yet. I 'd give my hand to know 
For what that finger stands. 
Sen. [Coming forward.] What stands it for ? 

Braun. Dear master ! 
Sen. Dolt ! 

Braun. Kind master ! 

Sen. Jackanapes ! 

What stands it for ? 
Braun. I'll tell, and give me time. 

Sen, What time? a day? a week? a month? a year? 

Or till my daughter's dead ? 
Braun. I was to fetch 

A leech unto your daughter. 
Sen. Wast thou so ? 

Wilt thou forget again ? 
Braun. No, sir! 

Sen. Thou wilt ! 

Or that, or something else. 
Braun. Indeed, sir, no ! 

Sen. Then say thy errand o'er again ! Say 't out ! 
See thou art right in every tittle on 't, 
Or look to 't; Now! 
Braun. Three yard& of buckram — 

Sen. No ! 

Begin with the leech. 
Braun. I set the leech against 

My little finger, sir. 
Sen. Begin with him. 

Braun. My little finger, sir, stood for the leech. 
Sen. I say begin with the leech! 
Braun. I will ! I will I 

Well, then, the leech. I go to bring him to 



scene i.] WILLIAM TELL. 9 

My lady, your daughter, for she 's sick. 

Sen. Go on. 

Mich. [Aside to Jagheli.] Jagheli, thou must play 
the leech! Away! [Exit Jagheli . 

Sen. Go on. 

Braun. I am to fetch three yards of buckram ; 

Twelve buckles, and the straps ; and, to conclude, 
A score of needles. 

Sen. [Striking him.~] Rascal, where 's the thread 
To sew the buckram ? Bring'st thou needles, fool ! 
And not the thread ? — Eh, starling ? Eh ? Wilt sew 
The buckram without thread ? 

Mich. [Coming forward and striking him.l Eh? ras- 
cal ! Eh ? 
Heard ever mortal man the like of this ? 
Eh, platter ! tankard ! nightcap ! Good for naught 
Except to eat, and drink, and sleep ! Forget 
Thy errand ! Serve thy worthy master thus ! 
Thy patient master! thy kind master! — Get 
Three meals a day., thy lodging, clothing, hire, 
And civil words to boot, and yet not be 
Trust- worthy to the fetching of a skein 
Of thread ! Eh ? Stomach ! Master Seneschal, 
Til run your errand straight. [Crosses. ~\ A leech, 

three yards 
Of buckram, thread a skein, a gross of needles — 
Bring needles without thread! Eh? gullet! — and 
A dozen buckles with the straps. 

Sen. Good lad! 

What art thou, prithee ? 

Mich. Sir, a sober youth, 

Son to a worthy burgher of the town ; 
Was brought up in a monastery, has 
Read Greek and Latin, knows to cast accounts, 
And writes a hand as good as any clerk's 
In Altorf, sir ; with sundry other gifts, 
As people say, but which 'twere not discreet 
In me to speak of. 
Sen. Why, a modest lad. Dost want a service ? 
Mich. Not as varlets want 

A service, sir, who let their duty out 
For coin : I have enough ; but I would serve 



10 WILLIAM TELL. [act i. 

For love at any time, especially 

The Seneschal of Altorf. Shall I run 

Your errand? 

Sen. Why, a model of a youth ! 

Thou shalt. Give him the money, sir. 

Brawn. The money ! 

Mich. Ay, Sit-over-meals ! can I provide the things 
Without the money ? 

Sen. Rascal! where' s the money ? 

Braun. I put it in this pocket, sir; I'm sure 
I put in in this pocket. 

Sen. C ome ! where is it ? 

Braun. Or could it be in this ? 

Sen. The money ! 

Braun. Yes, sir. 

Sen. Thy vest : — try that! The money, sirrah ! 

Braun. Good, sir, this instant ! 

Sen. Instant, dog ! Wilt swear 

Thou 'It find it in an hour ? 

Mich. Or in a day. 

Eh ? Lack-grace ! knave ! incorrigible knave, 
To chafe so sweet a temper' d gentleman ! 
What's that thou keep'st the last three fingers of 
Thy careful hand upon ? 

Braun. The money! There's 

The money. 

Sen, Give it him ! 

Mich. A patch ! a rag ! 

A tatter of a serving man ! to carry 
His master's money in his greasy hand, 
Instead of lodging 't in a safe and comely purse ! 
I '11 run your errand, sir. Three yards of buckram, 
A skein of thread, a score of needles, and 
Twelve buckles with straps ; not to forget 
To bring a leech to see your daughter, sir. 
A turnspit cur! I '11 run your errand, sir. 

[Exeunt Seneschal, Braun, and Michael. 



scene ii.] WILLIAM TELL. 11 



SCENE II.— The Field of Grutli—a Lake and 
Mountains. 

Enter Tell. 

Tell. Ye crags and peaks, I 'm with you once again ! 
I hold to you the hands you first beheld, 
To show they still are free. Methinks I hear 
A spirit in your echoes answer me, 
And bid your tenant welcome to his home 
Again ! — O sacred forms, how proud you look ! 
How high you lift your heads into the sky ! 
How huge you are ! how mighty and how free! 
Ye are the things that tower, that shine — whose 

smile 
Makes glad — whose frown is terrible — whose 

forms, 
Robed or unrobed, do all the impress wear 
Of awe divine. Ye guards of liberty, 
I 'm with you once again ! — I call to you 
With all my voice ! — I hold my hands to you 
To show they still are free. I rush to you 
As though I could embrace you ! 

Erni. [Without.'] William! William 

Tell. Here, Erni, here! 

Erni enters. 

Erni. You're sure to keep the time, 

That comes before the hour. 

Tell. The hour 

Will soon be here. O when will liberty 
Be here, my Erni ? That's my thought, which still 
I find beside. Scaling yonder peak, 
I saw an eagle wheeling near its brow 
O'er the abyss : — his broad-expanded wings 
Lay calm and motionless upon the air, 
As if he floated there without their aid, 
By the sole act of his unlorded will, 



12 WILLIAM TELL. [ ACT ,. 

That buoy'd him proudly up. Instinctively 

I bent my bow ; yet kept he rounding still 

His airy circle, as in the delight 

Of measuring the ample range beneath, 

And round about absorb'd, he heeded not 

The death that threaten'd him. — I could not 

shoot ! — 
'Twas liberty ! — I turned my bow aside, 
And let him soar away ! 

Verner. [Without ] Tell !— Tell ! 

Tell. [Crosses to him.'] Here, Verner ! 

Furst. [Without. ,] Tell! 

Tell. Here, worthy Furst. 

Enter Verner and Furst. 
Here, friends ! — Well met ! — Do we go on ? 

Ver. We do. 

Tell. Then you can count upon the friends you named ? 

Ver. On every man of them. 

Furst. And I on mine. 

Erni. Not one I sounded, but doth count his blood 
As water in the cause ! Then fix the day 
Before we part. 

Ver. No, Erni ; rather wait 

For some new outrage to amaze and rouse 
The common mind, which does not brood so much 
On wrongs gone by, as it doth quiver with 
The sense of present ones. 

Tell. [To Verner.] I wish with Erni, 

But think with thee. Yet when I ask myself 
On whom the wrong shall light for which we wait — 
Whose vineyard they '11 uproot— whose flocks 

they '11 ravage — 
Whose threshold they '11 profane — whose hearth 

pollute — 
Whose roof they '11 fire? — When this I ask myself, 
And think upon the blood of pious sons, 
The tears of venerable fathers, and 
The shrieks of mothers, fluttering round their 

spoil' d 
And nestless young — I almost take the part 
Of generous indignation, that doth blush 
At such expense to wait on sober prudence. 



scene ii.] WILLIAM TELL. 13 

Furst. Yet it is best. 

Tell. On that we 're all agreed ! 

Who fears the issue when the day shall come? 

Ver. Not 1 1 

Furst. Nor I ! 

Erni. Nor I ! 

Tell. I 'm not the man 

To mar this harmony. Nor I, no more 
Than any of you ! You commit to me 
The warning of the rest. Remember, then, 
My dagger sent to any one of you, 
As time may press, is word enough : — the others 
I'll see myself. Our course is clear — Dear Erni. 
Remember me to Melctal. [ Crosses.'] Furst, pro vid e 
What store you can of arms. Do you the same. 

[To Erni and Verner. 
The next aggression of the tyrant is 
The downfall of his power ! — Remember me 
To Melctal, Erni ;— to my father. Tell him 
He has a son was never born to him ! 
Farewell ! — When next we meet upon this theme, 
All Switzerland shall witness what we do ! 

[Exeunt Tell and the rest. 



SCENE III. — A Chamber in the inside of the Castle, 
with an open Window. 

Enter Anneli and Agnes. 

An. Art sure thou heard' st him? 

Ag. Do I hear you, coz? 

As sure did I hear him, and see him, too, 

From yonder casement. 
An. Sweet ! look out again : 

Perhaps he '11 still be there. 
Ag. I wonder, cousin, 

You 'd send another's eyes to look for that 

You'd give your own to see ! You silly thing! 

Look out yourself. 
An. , Ah, sweet ! look out for me, 



14 WILLIAM TELL. [ ACT t . 

For should he not be there, 'twill pain me less 
To miss him by your eyes than by my own. 

Ag.'.WeM, lend me your hand, 

To help me up. Dear love, you tremble so 
You '11 pull me down! O silly, silly thing, 
To be so scared at what you so desire! 

An. Fear, coz, you know, is offspring to desire. 

Ay. A gentle mother to a froward child ! 

Love finds out wonders, coz; but find not I 
The thing I look for. No \ he is not there. 

An. Nay, look again. 

Ag. I cannot make him there 

By looking, coz— -could you ? 

An. I would I could! 

I 'd look my eyes blind till he came. 

Ag. Indeed! 

And see him then ? 

An. And see him then ! the thought 

That I might see him then would bring me back 
My sight. 

Ag. It would ! O, wonder-working love ! 

I would not have you risk your sight, dear coz ; 
But I would have you try another thing. 
You'd run no risk to love, unless they wrong 
Our sex, who say it's voice is lasting as 
'Tis sweet. Sing, coz ; he'll hear and come. 
Come, sing. 

An. Sing, cousin! 

Ag. Ay. 

An. Am I not sick ? — confined 

To my own chamber — sick, coz — doubly sick 
For fear of one, I would not wed, for love 
Of one I would ? Have they not sent just now 
To bring the leech to see me ? And you 'd have 
Me sing! O, thoughtless coz ! 

Ag. For too much thought, 

Never at rest to do my cousin good, 
Did I not bid thee hate the Castellain, 
When thou didst say thou couldst not love him, 

coz? 
Did I not bid thee love the burgher's son, 
When thou didst say, thou never couldst hate him ? 
And when thy father swore he 'd have thee wed, 



scene in.] WILLIAM TELL. 15 

And thou didst say thou'dst sooner die than wed, 
Did I not bid thee, coz, fall sick at once, 
And die? And now, when to the casement comes 
The man thou d'st wish the casement, door, and all 
Were open to, would I not have thee sing", 
To let him know there 's neither bolt nor bar? 
An. What shall I sing? the ballad, love, 
1 learn' d last Saturday ? 

O well you ride, Sir Knight! O well 

Your courser you bestride; 
But you 'd ride better, could you tell 
Who sees you as you ride. 

Not your lady, Sir Knight — Not your lady, Sir Knight 

But her father, who wishes you far out of sight. 

O well you sing, Sir Knight, O well 

Your ditty you rehearse; 
But you'd sing better could you tell 
Who lists your tender verse. 
Not your lady, Sir Knight — Not your lady, Sir Knight — 
But your rival, who's fretting and fuming for spite. 

O well you climb, Sir Knight, O well 

You climb to your lady's bower; 
But you'd climb better could you tell 
Who sees you scale the tower. 
'Tis your lady, Sir Knight — 'Tis your lady, Sir Knight — 
Who wishes the tower were not half the height. 

O fast you fly, Sir Knight, O fast 

You urge your laden steed; 
But you 'd ride slower, if you guess'd 
How little is the need. 
They have turned to the left — you have taken the right — 
And you should be wedding, not riding, Sir Knight. 

Enter the Seneschal. 

Sen. How now! What's this? Ha! singing at the 

casement ? Anneli here ! 
Ag % I woo'd her from her chamber: change, they say, 

Is physic to the sick, when medicine 

More costly 's virtueless ! 



16 WILLIAM TELL. [act i. 

Sen. What, Anneli! art better, girl ? 

An. No, sir. 

Sen. Better or worse I '11 have thee soon. The leech 

Will strait be here — he should be coming now. 

Thy chamber ! 
An. [to Agnes.'] Should he find I am not ill ! 

Ag. He '11 find he 's not a ducat richer by it, 

So never fear: — he '11 find thee very ill. 

If thou 'rt not well until he makes thee so, 

Thou shaltbe sick, coz, to thy heart's content. 

{Exit Anneli. 

Sen. Agnes, 

Ag. Yes, sir. 

Sen. What says thy cousin ? 

Ag. Naught, sir. 

Sen. What didst thou say to her? 

Ag. I told her, sir, 

To keep her heart up, and not fear the leech. 

Sen. Not fear the leech ! 

Ag. E'er since you spoke of him 

She has done nothing, sir, but talk of lancets, 
Caustics, and blisters ; powders, nauseous 

draughts ; 
With fifty other shocking things, that much 
I fear me, sir, she will feign well to cheat 
The leech. 

Sen. Ha, think'st thou so ? 

Ag. I'm sure on't. 

She has been practising e'er since you named him. 

Sen. I thought she look'd much better ! 

Ag. Better, sir! She's worse, much worse. 
In short, she 's going — going, sir; and yet 
She 'd sooner die than undergo the leech. 

Sen. Ne'er fear, ne'er fear; she shall not cheat him so. 
I '11 not believe him. Though he says she 's well, 
I '11 make him think her ill. No drug he has 
But shall be fully tried on her; his pills, 
Emplastrums, ointments, julaps, cataplasms, 
Shall take their turn with her; and, if these fail, 
W r e '11 bring his knives and lancets to her; nor, 
When all is done, shall he give o'er, until 
She's well again, and weds the Castellain. 



scene in.] WILLIAM TELL. 17 

Braun entering. 
Braun. The leech is here, sir. 

Enter Michael, with Jagheli disguised as a leech. 

Mich. Sir, I've brought the gentleman, 

And all the articles you bade me get. 

Sen. Good lad, and active. [Crosses to Jagheli] Wel- 
come, sir! Methiiiks 
He 's very young ! Art sure he is 
A leech ? 

Mich. A leech, sir ! — such a leech as not 

His fellow can be found in Altorf, sir. 
Remember, sir, it is the use of time, 
Not time itself that's written in our looks. 
Forty is younger far than twenty, sir, 
When that sees husbandry, but this does not. 
But never take my word for 't ; only try 
His lancet — do, sir — 'tis miraculous 
How skilfully he can phlebotomize. 
No scratch, sir, prick of a pin, or flea-bite, sir, 
But real blade-work. Let him bleed you, sir. 

Sen. No, no; on second looks, methinks he's not 
So young. 

Mich. Past forty, sir. 

Sen. Past forty! Come, 

Take ten from that. 

Mich. Ten, sir ! I pray you, lady, 

Provide a ribbon for the Seneschal, 
And something soft to make a compress of. 

[Exit Agnes. 
Ten do you say, sir ? Ten ? Ten years ago 
He bled and blistered me — I '11 shew you ; sir, 
The mark of his lancet. 

Sen. Nay, good youth, don't strip 

Thy sleeve. 

Mich. Strip yours, theu, sir, and let him try 

His lancet on you. Fetch a basin, rascal! 

[Exit Braun. 
''Twill do you good, sir : for a healthy man, 
You 're over-full of blood. Your cheek 's a tint 

B 



18 WILLIAM TELL. [act i. 

Too florid, sir. There 's indigestion in 't, 
Which breeds vertigo ; for preventing which 

[Getting a chair. 
There's nothing like the breathing of a vein. 

Re-enter Agnes with a ribbon, fyc. Braun with a 
bason. 

Sit down, sir. 

Sen. Nay, good lad! 

Mich. Good master leech, 

Your case of instruments, wherein you store 
Your lancets, scalpels, and your scarifiers — 
The Seneschal wants bleeding. 

Sen. No, no, no! 

I am content he is a man of skill. 

Mich. Just let him take a single ounce of blood, 
To see how he can use a lancet, sir. 

Sen. I tell thee no !— I 'm sure he is a leech. — 

Mich. But half an ounce. 

Sen. Good youth, I would not wrong 

The worthy man, by asking him to take 
A single drop. I 'm sure he is a leech ! 
One needs but look at him to know that he 
Can bleed ; and for his years, to see him close, 
He 's far from young; past forty, at the least. 
Good sir, put up your case of instruments, 
And come along with me to see my daughter. 
And, Agnes, give this youth a cup of wine, 
With what you have that 's best to relish it. 

[Exeunt severally. 



END OF ACT I, 



act H.] WILLIAM TELL, 19 



ACT II. 

SCENE l.—TelVs Cottage on the right of a Moun- 
tain : a distant view of a hake, backed by Mountains 
of stupendous height, their tops covered with snow, 
and lighted at the very points by the rising Sun; the 
rest of the distance being yet in shade. On one side 
a Vineyard. 

Enter ^uukfrom the cottage. 

Emma. O, the fresh morning ! Heaven's kind mes- 
senger. 
That never empty-handed comes to those 
Who know to use its gifts. — Praise be to him 
Who loads it still, and bids it constant run 
The errand of his bounty ! — " Praise, be to him ! 
" We need his care that on the mountain's cliff 
" Lodge by the storm, and cannot lift our eyes, 
" But piles on piles of everlasting snows, 
a O'erhanging us, remind us of his mercy." 

Albert appears on an eminence. 

Alb. My mother ! 

Emma. Albert ! 

Alb. [Descending and approaching Emma.] Bless thee! 

Emma. Bless thee, Albert ! 

How early were you up ? 
Alb. Before the sun. 

Emma. Ay, strive with him. He never lies a-bed 

When it is time to rise. He ever is 

The constant'st workman, that goes through his 
task, 

And shows us how to work by setting to 't 
b2 



20 WILLIAM TELL. [act ii 

With smiling face ; for labour 's light as ease 

That cheerfulness doth take in hand. Be like 

The sun. 
Alb. What you would have me like, I '11 be like, 

As far as will, to labour join'd, can make me. 
Emma. Well said, my boy ! " Knelt you when you 
got up 

" To-day ? 
Alb. " I did; and do so everyday. 
Emma. " I know you do ! And think you, when you 
kneel, 

" To whom you kneel ? 
Alb. " To him who made me, mother. 

Emma, " And in whose name ? 
Alb. " The name of him, who died 

" For me and all men, that all men and I 

« Should live. 
Emma. " That 's right. Remember that, my son : 

" Forget ail things but that — Remember that ! 

u 'Tis more than friends or fortune ; clothing, food; 

" All things of earth ; yea, life itself ! — It is 

" To live when these are gone, where they are 
nought 

" With God ! My son, remember that ! 
Alb. I will !" 

Emma. You have been early up, when I, that play'd 

The sluggard in comparison, am up 

Full early ; for the highest peaks alone, 

As yet, behold the sun. Now tell me what 

You ought to think on, when you see the sun 

So shining on the peak? 
Alb. That as the peak 

Feels not the pleasant sun, or feels it least ; 

So they, who highest staud in fortune's smile, 

Are gladden'd by it least, or not at all ! 
Emma. And what 's the profit you should turn this to ? 
Alb. Rather to place my good in what 1 have, 

That think it worthless, wishing to have more : 

For more is not more happiness, so oft 

As less. 
Emma. I'm glad you husband what you 're taught. 

That is the lesson of content, my son ; 



scene i.] WILLIAM TELL. 21 

He who finds which, has ail — who misses, nothing. 
Alb. Content is a good thing. 
Emma. A thing, the good 

Alone can profit by. 
Alb. My father 's good. 

Emma. What say'st thou, boy ? 

Alb. I say my father 's good. 

Emma. Yes ; he is good ! what then ? 
Alb. I do not think 

He is content — I 'in sure he 's not content ; 

Nor would I be content, were I a man, 

And Gesler seated on the rock of Altorf ! 

A man may lack content, and yet be good. 
Emma. 1 did not say all good men found content. — 

I would be busy ; leave me. 
Alb. You 're not angry ? 

Emma. No, no, my boy. 
Alb. You 'H kiss me? 

Emma. Will I not ! 

The time will come you will not ask your mother 

To kiss you ! 
Alb. Never ! 

Emma. Not when you 're a man ? 

Alb. I '11 never be a man to see that time: 

I 'd rather die, now when I am a child, 

Than live to be a man, and not love you ! 
Emma. Live — live to be a man, and love your mother ! 

[They embrace — Albert runs off into the cottage. 

Why should my heart sink ? 'tis for this we rear 

them ; 
Cherish their tiny limbs ; pine if a thorn 
But mar their tender skin ; gather them to us 
Closer than miser hugs his bag of gold ; 
Bear more for them than slave, who makes his 

flesh 
A casket for the rich, purloined gem — 
To send them forth into a wintry world, 
To brave its flaws and tempests ! — They must go I 
Far better, then, they go with hearty will ! 
Be that my consolation. — Nestling as 
He is, he is the making of a bird 



22 WILLIAM TELL. [ ACT n. 

Will own no cowering wing. 'Twas fine— 'twas 

fine 
To see my eaglet on the verge o' the nest, 
Ruffling himself at sight of the big gulf 
He feels anon he '11 have the wing to soar. 

[Re-enter Albert, with a how and arrows 
and a rude target, which he sets up during 
the first lines, laying his how and quiver on 
the ground* 

What have you there ? 
Alh. My bow and arrows, mother. 

Emma. When will you use them like your father, boy ? 
Alh. Sometime, I hope. 
Emma. You brag ! There's not an archer 

in all Helvetia can compare with him. 
Alh. But I 'm his son ; and when I am a man, 

I may be like him. Mother, do I brag, 

To think I sometime may be like my father ? 

If so, then is it he that teaches me ; 

For ever as I wonder at his skill, 

He calls me boy, and says I must do more 

Ere I become a man. 
Emma. May you be such 

A man as he — if heaven wills, better — I '11 

Not quarrel with its work ; yet 'twill content me 

If you are only such a man. 
Alh. I Ml show you 

How 1 can shoot. Look, mother ! there 's within 

An inch ! 
Emma. O fy ! it wants a hand. 

\_Going into the cottage. 

Alh. A hand's 

An inch for me. I '11 hit it yet. Now for it ! 

[While Albert continues to shoot, the light 
gradually approaches the hase of the moun- 
tains in the distance, and spreads itself 
over the lake and valley. Tell enters, and 
watches Albert some time in silence. 

Tell. That 's scarce amiss that comes so near the mark I 
Well aim' el, young 'archer ! With what ease he 
bends 



scene I.] WILLIAM TELL. 23 

The bow ! To see those sinews, who'd believe 
Such strength did lodge in them? Well aim' d 

again ! 
There plays the skill will thin the chamois herd, 
And bring the lammer-geyer from the cloud 
To earth. Perhaps do greater feats — perhaps 
Make man its quarry, when he dares to tread 
Upon his fellow man. That little arm, 
His mother's palm can span, may help, anon, 
To pull a sinewy tyrant from his seat, 
And from their chains a prostrate people lift 
To liberty. I 'd be content to die, 
Living to see that day ! — What, Albert! 

Alb. Ah! 

My father! 

Emma. [Running from the cottage.] William !— wel- 
come, William, — welcome ! 
I did not look for you till noon. Joy 's doubly joy 
That comes before the time — it is a debt 
Paid ere 'tis due, which fills the owner's heart 
With gratitude, and yet 'tis but his own! 
And are you well — and has the chase prov'd good ? 
How has it fared with you ? — Come in ; I 'm sure 
You want refreshment. 

Tell. No ; I did partake 

A herdsman's meal, upon whose lonely chalet 
I chanced to light. I 've had bad sport — my track 
Lay with the wind, which to the start'lish game 
Betray'd me still. Only one prize ; and that 
I gave mine humble host. — You raise the bow 
Too fast. [To Alee u t, nlw has returned to his 
2)ractice.] Bring 't slowly to the eye — 
You've miss'd. 
How often have you hit the mark to-day ? 

Alb. Not once, yet. 

Tell. You 're not steady. I perceived 

You waver'd now. Stand firm ! — let every limb 
Be braced as marble, and as motionless. 
Stand like the sculptor's statue, on the gate 
Of Altorf, that looks life, yet neither breathes 
Nor stirs. That 's better ! 

Emma. William! William! — O! 



I WILLIAM TELL. [act ii. 

To be the parents of a boy like that ! — 
Why speak you not — and wherefore do you sigh ? 
What 's in your heart to keep the transport out 
That fills up mine, when looking on our child, 
Till it o'erflows mine eye ? 
Tell. You've miss'd again! 

Dost see the mark ? Rivet your eye to it ! 
There let it stick, fast as the arrow would, 
Could you but send it there! 
Emma. Why, William, don't 

You answer me ? 
Tell. Again ! How would you fare, 

Suppose a wolf should cross your path, and you 
Alone, with but your bow, and only time 
To fix a single arrow ? 'Twould not do 
To miss the wolf! You said, the other day, 
Were you a man, you 'd not let Gesler live — 
'Twas easy to say that. Suppose you, now, 
Your life or his depended on that shot ! — 
Take care ! That 's Gesler !— Now for Liberty t 
Right to the tyrant's heart ! — Well done, my boy ! 
Come here!— -Now, Emma, I will answer you: 
Do I not love you ? Do I not love our child ? 
Is not that cottage dear to me, where I 
Was born ? How many acres would I give 
That little vineyard for, which I have watch'd 
And tended since I was a child ? Those crags 
And peaks — what spired city would I take 
To live in, in exchange for them? — Yet what 
Are these to me ?— What is this boy to me ? — 
What art thou, Emma, to me — when a breath 
Of Geslers can take all ? 
Emma. O, William, think 

How little is that all to him — too little 
For Gesler, sure, to take. Bethink thee, William, 
We have no treasure. 
Tell, Have we not ? Have we 

No treasure ? How ! No treasure ? What, 
Have we not liberty ? that precious ore, 
That peajrl, that gem the tyrant covets most, 
Yet can't enjoy himself — for which he drains 
His coffers of their coin — his land of blood ; ; 



scene i.} WILLIAM TELL. 25 

Yea, makes a pawn of his own soul— lacks ease — 
Goes without sleep — pines himself sallow, pale — 
Frets till the bile gnaws appetite away — 
Forgets both heaven and hell, only to strip 
The wearer of it ! Emma, we have that, 
And that 's enough for Gesler ! 

Emma. Then, indeed, 

My William, we have much to fear. 

Tell. We have, 

And best it is we know how much. Then, Emma, 
Make up thy mind, wife ; make it up : remember 
What wives and mothers on these very hills 
Once breath'd the air you breathe : Helvetia 
Hath chronicles, the masters of the world, 
As they were called — the Romans — kept for her: 
And in those chronicles 'tis writ — and praise 
Set down by foes must needs at least be true. 
'Tis writ, I say, that when the Rhetians — 
(They were the early tenants of those hills) — 
Withstood the lust of Roman tyranny, 
With Claudius Drusus, and a certain Nero, 
Sons-in-law of Octavius Caesar, at 
Its head — the Rhetian women, when the men, 
O'ermateh'd by numbers, did at last give way. 
Seeing that liberty was gone, threw life 
And nature, too, as worthless, after it; 
Rush'd thro' the gaping ranks of them that fled, 
And on the dripping weapons of the red 
Victorious van, impal'd themselves and children ! 

Emma. O, William! 

Tell. Emma, let the boy alone ; 

Don't clasp him so, 'twill soften him! Go, sir, 
See if the valley sends us visitors 
To-day; some friend, perchance, may need thy 

guidance. 
Away ! [Exit Albert.] He 's better from thee, 

Emma ; the time 
Is come, a mother on her breast should fold 
Her arms, as they had done with such endearments, 
And bid her children go from her to hunt 
For danger, which will presently hunt them — 
The less to heed it. 



26 WILLIAM TELL. [act i. 

Emma. William, you are right ; 

The task you set me I will try to do : 
I would not live myself to be a slave— 
I would not live to be the dam of one. 
No ! woman as I am, 1 would not, William ! 
Then choose my course for me ; whate'er it is, 
I will say, ay, and do it, too ; suppose 
To dress my little stripling* for the war, 
And take him by the hand, to lead him to 't, 
Yes, I would do it at thy bidding 1 , William, 
Without a tear : I say that I could do it, 
Tho', now I only talk of doing it, 
1 can't help shedding one ! 

Tell. Did I not choose thee 

From out the fairest of the maids of Uri ? 
Less that in beauty thou didst them surpass, 
Than that thy soul that beauty overmatch'd. 
Why rises on thy matron cheek that blush, 
Mantling it fresh as in thy virgin morn, 
But that I did so ? Do I wonder, then, 
To find thee equal to the task of virtue, 
Altho' a hard one ? No, I wonder not ! 
Why should I, Emma, make thy heart acquainted 
With ills I could shut out from it — rude guests 
For such a home! Here, only, we have had 
Two hearts; in all things else — in love, in faith, 
In hope, in joy that never had but one ! 
But henceforth we must have but one here also. 

Emma. O, William, you have wrong'd me- kindly 
wrong' d me. 
Whenever yet was happiness the test 
Of love in man or woman ? who 'd not hold 
To that which must advantage him ? who 'd not 
Keep promise to a feast, or mind his pledge 
To share a rich man's purse? there's not a churl, 
However base, but might be thus approved 
Of most unswerving constancy. But that 
Which looseus churls, ties friends, or changes 

them, 
Only to stick the faster. William ! William ! 
That man knew never yet the love of woman, 
Who never had an ill to share with her. 



scene I.] WILLIAM TELL. 27 

Tell. Not even to know that would I in so 

Ungentle partnership engage thee, Emma, 
So will could help it ; but necessity, 
The master yet of will, how strong soe'er, 
Commands me prove thee. When I wedded thee, 
The land was free! Heavens, with what pride 

Ius'd 
To walk these hills, " and look op to my God, 
i( And bless him that it was so. It was free — 
" From end to end, from cliff to lake 'twas free ! 
" Free as our torrents are that leap our rocks, 
" And plough our vallies, without asking leave; 
" Or as our peaks that wear their caps of snow, 
" In very presence of the regal sun." 
How happy was it then ! I lov'd 
Its very storms. Yes, Emma, I have sat 
In my boat at night, when, midway o'er the lake, 
The stars went out, and down the mountain gorge 
The wind came roaring. I have sat and eyed 
The thunder breaking from his cloud, and smiled 
To see him shake his lightnings o'er my head, 
And think I had no master save his own. 
You know the jutting cliff round which a track 
Up hither winds, whose base is but the brow 
To such another one, with scanty room 
For two a-breast to pass? O'ertaken there 
By the mountain blast, I 've laid me flat along, 
And while gust followed gust more furiously, 
As if to sweep me o'er the horrid brink, 
And I have thought of other lands, whose storms 
Are summer flaws to those of mine, and just 
Have wished me there — the thought that mine 

was free 
Has check'd that wish, and I have rais'dmy head, 
And cried in thraldom to that furious wind, 
Blow on ! This is the land of liberty ! 

Emma. I almost see thee on that fearful pass, 
And yet so seeing thee, I have a feeling- 
Forbids me wonder that thou didst so. 

Tell. 'Tis 

A feeling must not breathe where Gesler breathes, 



28 WILLIAM TELL. [act ii. 

But may within these arms. List, Emma, list! 

A league is made to pull the tyrant down 

E'en from his seat upon the rock of Altorf. 

Four hearts have stak'd their blood upon the cast, 

And mine is one of them ! 
Emma. I did not start ; 

Tell me more, William ! 
Tell. I will tell thee all. 

Albert, [ivithout] O, father! 
OldMelctal. [without] Tell -Tell— William! 
Emma. Don't 

You know that voice ? 

Enter Old Melctal, blind, led by Albert. 

O. M. Where art thou, William ? 

Tell. Who is 't ? 

Emma, Do you not know him ? 
Tell. No 1 it cannot be 

The voice of Melctal I 
Alb. Father, it is Melctal. 

Emma. What ails you, Tell ? 

Alb. O, father, speak to him. 

Emma. What passion shakes you thus ? 
Tell. His eyes — where are they ? 

Melctal has eyes ! 
O. M. Tell! 

Tell. 'Tis Melctal's voice 

Where are his eyes ? Have they put out his eyes ? 

Has Gesler turn'd the little evening of 

The old man's life to night, before its time ; 

To such black night as sees not with the day 

All round it. Father! speak; pronounce the 
name 

Of Gesler! 
O.M. Gesler! 

Tell. Gesler has toru out 

The old man's eyes! Support thy mother! Erni? 

Where 's Erni ? Where 's thy son ? Is he alive, 

And are his father's eyes torn out ? 
O. M. He lives, my William, 

But knows it not. 



scene I.] WILLIAM TELL. 29 

Tell. When he shall know it ! Heavens ! 

When he shall know it! — I am not thy son, 
Yet — O, when he shall know it! 

Emma, [alarmed at Ms increasing vehemence'] Wil- 
liam — William ! 
Alb. Father! 

Tell. Could I find 

Something to tear — to rend, were worth it — some- 
thing 
Most ravenous and bloody — something like 
Gesler : a wolf — no, no ; a wolf *s a lamb 
To Gesler! it is natural hunger makes 
The wolf a savage, and savage as he is, 
Yet with his kind he gently doth consort. 
'Tis but his lawful prey he tears, and that 
He finishes, not mangles, and then leaves 
To live! they slander him who call him cruel: 
He hath no joy in cruelty, but as 
It ministers to his most needful want : 
He does not know that he is cruel — no — 
Not when he rends an infant. I would let 
The wolf go free for Gesler ! Water ! Water ,- 
My tongue cleaves to my roof. 

O. M. What ails thee, William \ 

I pray thee, William, let me hear thy voice ! 
That's not thy voice! 

Tell. I cannot speak to thee. 

Emma, [returning with a vessel of water] Here, Wil- 
liam. 

Tell. Emma! 

Emma. Drink ! 

Tell. I cannot drink! 

Emma. Your eyes are fixed. 

Tell. Melctal ! he has no eyes ! 

[Bursts into tears. 

The poor old man ! [Falls on MelctaVs neck. 
O.M. I feel thee, Tell! I care not 

That I have lost my eyes. I feel thy tears — 
They 're more to me than eyes ! When I had eyes, 
I never knew thee, William, as I know 
Thee now without. I do not want my eyes! 



30 WILLIAM TELL. [act ii. 

Tell. How came it, father? briefly, father! quick 

And briefly! Action! Action ! I'm in such glee 
For work — so eager to be doing — have 
Such stomach for a task, I 've scarcely patience 
To wait to know what 'tis : — here, here; sit down. 
Now, father! 

O. M. Yesterday, when I and Erni 

Went to the field, to bring our harvest home, 
Two soldiers of the tyrant's came upon us, 
And without cause alleged, or interchange 
Of word, proceeded to unyoke the oxen. 

Tell. Go on ! 

O. M. As one stunn'd by a thunder-clap 

Stands sudden still, nor for awhile bethinks him 
Of taking shelter from the storm, so we, 
Confounded by an act so bold, awhile 
Look'd on in helpless silence : till at length 
Erni, as sudden as the hurricane. 
That lays the oak uprooted, ere you see 
Its branches quiver, bounding on the spoilers, 
Wrench'd from their grasp the yoke, and would 

have laid 
Them dead, had they not ta'en to instant flight. 

Tell. Did he pursue them? 

O. M. No; I threw myself 

Between ! 

Tell. Why didst thou save them ? 

O. M. 'Twas my son 

I sav'd! I clasp'd his knees! I ealm'd his rage. 
I forc'd him from me to the caverns of 
Mount Faigel, William, till the tyrant's wrath 
Should cool, or be diverted. 'Twas my son 
I sav'd, for scarcely was he out of sight, 
And I within my cottage, when the cries 
Of Gesler's bands beset it, calling for 
The blood of Erni — William— he was safe ! 
Clear of their fangs! my son was safe ! O, think — 
Think, William, what 1 felt to see his lair — 
His very lair beset, and know my boy — 
My lion boy was safe. Enough; they seiz'd me, 
And dragg'd me before Gesler. 

Tell. Say no more! 



scene I.] WILLIAM TELL. SI 

His life cost you your eyes. 'Tis worth a pair 
Of eyes, but not your eyes, old man. No, no, 
He would have given it ten times over for 
But one of them. But one ? But for a hair 
O' the lash — My bow and quiver. — He was by ? 

O. M. Was by. 

Tell* More arrows for my quiver. 

And looking on ? 

O. M. And looking on. 

Tell. {Putting the arrows into his quiver] 'Twill do — 
He would dine after that, and say a grace — 
Good heavens! to tear a man's eyes out, and then 
Thank God ! — My staff. He 'd have his wine, too. 

How 
The man could look at it, and drink it off, 
And not grow sick at the colour on 't. Enough ; 
Put by the rest. [To Emma, who has brought 
him a bundle of arrows] I '11 grow more calm. 
My flask — I want it fill'd; and put provision 
Into my pouch. [The expression of Emma's coun~ 
tenance, as she assists to equip him, catches 
his eye.] I thank thee for that look. 
Now seem 'st thou like some kind o'er-seeing angel, 
Smiling as he prepares the storm, that, while 
It shakes the earth, and makes its tenants pale, 
Doth smite a pestilence. Thou would'st not stay 
me? 

Emma. No. 

Tell. Nor thy boy, if I required his service? 

Emma. No, William. 

Tell. Make him ready, Emma. 

O.M. No; 

Not Albert, William. 

Emma. Yes ; even Albert, father. 

Thy cap and wallet, boy! — thy mountain staff — 
Where hast thou laid it? — Find it! Haste; don't 

keep 
Thy father waiting! — He is ready, William. 

[Leading Albert vp to Tell. 

Tell. Well done ! Well done ! I thank you love ; I 
thank you ! 



32 WILLIAM TELL. [act ii. 

Now mark me, Albert! Dost thou fear the snow, 
The ice-field, or the hail flaw ? Car'st thou for 
The mountain mist, that settles on the peak 
When thou'rt upon it! Dost thou tremble at 
The torrent roaring from the deep ravine, 
Along whose shaking ledge thy track doth lie? 
Or faint 'st thou at the thunder-clap, when on 
The hill thou art overtaken by the cloud, 
And it doth burst around thee? Thou must 

travel 
All night. 

Alb. I 'm ready ; say all night again ! 

Tell. The mountains are to cross, for thou must reach 
Mount Faigel by the dawn. 

Alb. Not sooner shall 

The dawn be there than I. 

Tell. Heaven speeding thee. 

Alb. Heaven speeding me. 

Tell. Shew me thy staff. Art sure 

O' the point? I think 'tis loose. No — stay! 

'Twill do. 
Caution is speed, when danger's to be pass'd. 
Examine well the crevice. Do not trust 
The snow ! 'Tis well there is a moon to-night. 
You 're sure o' the track ? 

Alb. Quite sure. 

Tell. The buskin of 

That leg 's untied ; stoop down, and fasten it. 
You know the point where you must round the 
cliff? 

Alb. I do. 

Tell. Thy belt is slack — draw 't tight. 

Erni is in Mount Faigel : take this dagger, 
And give it him ; you know it's caverns well. 
In one of them you '11 find him. Bid thy mother 
Farewell. Come, boy ; we go a mile together. 
Father— thy hand ! 

O. M. How firm thy grasp is, William. 

Tell. There is a resolution in it, father, 
Will keep. 

O.M I cannot see thine eye, but I know 

How it looks. 



scene I.] WILLIAM TELL. 33 

Tell. I '11 tell thee how it looks. List, father, 

List. Father — thou shalt be reveng'd! My Emma, 
Melctal's thy father; that's his home, till I 
Return ; Yes, father, thou shalt be reveng'd. 
Lead him in, Emma, lead him in ; the sun 
Grows hot; the old man's weak and faint. Mind, 

father, 
Mind, thou shalt be reveng'd. In, wife ; in — in. 
Thou shalt be sure reveng'd. Come, Albert. 

[Emma and Melctal enter the cottage. 

[Exeunt Tell and Albert hastily. 



END OF ACT II. 



34 WILLIAM TELL. [act Jit. 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. — A Mountain with mist. 

Gesler is seen descending the mountain with a hunt- 
ing pole. 

Ges. Alone— alone ! and every step, the mist 

Thickens around me! On these mountain tracts 
To lose one's way, they say is sometimes death ! 
What hoa ! Holloa ! No tongue replies to me ! 
What thunder hath the horror of this silence ! 
" I dare not stop — the day, though not half run, 
" Is not less sure to end his course ; and night, 
" Dreary when through the social haunts of men 
tc Her solemn darkness walks, in such a place 
" As this comes wrapp'din most appalling fear. 7 * 
I dare not stop — nor dare I yet proceed, 
Begirt with hidden danger : if I take 
This hand, it carries me still deeper into 
The wild and savage solitudes I'd shun, 
Where once to faint with hunger is to die : 
If this, it leads me to the precipice, 
Whose brink with fatal horror rivets him 
That treads upon % till drunk with fear, he reels 
Into the gaping void, and headlong down 
Plunges to still more hideous death. Curs'd slaves, 
To let me wander from them ! Hoa — holloa ! — 
My voice sounds weaker to mine ear : I 've not 
The strength to call I had, and through my limbs 
Cold tremor runs — and sickening faintness seizes 
On my heart. O, heaven, have mercy ! Do not see 
The colour of the hands I lift to thee ! 
Look only on the strait wherein I stand, 
And pity it! Let me not sink — Uphold! 
Support me ! Mercy ! — Mercy ! 



scene i.] WILLIAM TELL. 3* 

[He leans against a rock stupified with terror 
and exhaustion — it grows darher and dark- 
er — the rain pours dawn in torrents, and 
a furious wind arises — the mountain 
streams begin to swell and roar. Albert 
is seen descending by the side of one of the 
streams, winch in his course he crosses with 
the help of ids pole. 

Alb. I '11 breathe upon this level, if the wind 

Will let me. Ha ! a rock to shelter me ! 

Thanks to't — a man! and fainting*. Courage, 
friend! 

Courage. — A stranger that has lost his way — 

Take heart — take heart : you 're safe. How feel 
you now? 
Ges. Better. 

Alb. You 've lost your way upon the hill ? 

Ges. I have. 

Alb. And whither would you go? 

Ges. To Altorf. 

Alb. I '11 guide you thither. 
Ges. You 're a child. 

Alb. I know 

The way : the track I 've come is harder far 

To find. 
Ges. The track you 've come ! — what mean 

you? Sure 

You have not been still farther in the mountains ? 
Alb. I 've travell'd from Mount Faigel. 
Ges. No one with thee ? 

Alb. No one but Him. 

Ges. Do you not fear these storms ? 

Alb. He's in the storm. 
Ges. And there are torrents, too, 

That must be cross'd ? 
Alb. He's by the torrent, too. 

Ges. You 're but a child ? 

Alb. He will be with a child. 

Ges. You're sure you know the way ? 
Alb. 'Tis but to keep 

The side of yonder stream. 
Ges. But guide me safe, 

c2 



36 WILLIAM TELL. [act hi. 

I'll give thee gold. 
Alb. I '11 guide thee safe without. 

Ges. Here's earnest for thee. Here — I '11 double that, 

Yea, treble it — but let me see the gate 

Of Altorf. Why do you refuse the gold ? 

Take 't. 
Alb. No. 

Ges. You shall. 

Alb. I will not. 

Ges. Why? 

Alb. Because 

I do not covet it ; — and though I did, 

It would be wrong to take it as the price 

Of doing one a kindness. 
Ges. Ha ! — who taught 

Thee that ? 
Alb. My father. 

Ges. Does he live in Altorf ? 

Alb. No; in the mountains. 
Ges. How — a mountaineer ? 

He should become a tenant of the city : 

He 'd gain by 't. 
Alb. Not so much as he might lose by 't. 

Ges. What might he lose by 't ? 
Alb. Liberty. 

Ges. Indeed ! 

He also taught thee that? 
Alb. He did. 

Ges. His name ? 

Alb. This is the way to Altorf, sir. 
Ges. I 'd know 

Thy father's name; 
Alb. The day is wasting — we 

Have far to go. 
Ges. Thy father's name, I say ? 

Alb. I will not tell it thee. 
Ges. Not tell it me ! 

Why? 
Alb. You may be an enemy of his. 

Ges. May be a friend. 
Alb. May be ; but should you be 

An enemy — although I would not tell you 



scene ii.] WILLIAM TELL. 37 

My father's name— -1 'd guide you safe to Altorf. 

Will you follow me ? 
Ges. Ne'er mind thy father's name. 

What would it profit me to know 't ? Thy hand : 

We are not enemies. 
Alb. I never had 

An enemy. 
Ges. Lead on. 

Alb. Advance your staff 

As you descend, and fix it well. Come on. 
Ges. What, must we take that steep ? 
Alb. 'Tis nothing! Come, 

I '11 go before. Ne'er fear — Come on 1 come on ! 

{Exeunt. 



SCENE II. — An Apartment in the Castle of Altorf . 

Enter Michael and Jagheli. 

Jag. Yes, Michael, so it stands : she only is 
Step-daughter to the Seneschal — the less 
Her debt of duty, which, though it were more, 
She were absolved from by the tyrant's part 
He acts, who 'd wed her where she cannot love. 

win her for me, Michael, or you '11 have 
To get a leech for me. 

Mich. Get thee a leech ! I '11 be in want of one 
Myself. Thy sickness is infectious. Would 
A scalded foot had kept me to the house — 
A fever tied me to my bed — a fit 
Tripp'd up my heels in the street, ere I had met 

thee 
To make thee play the leech ! I was as sound 
As reckless laughter, then ; could eat or drink 
With him that ask'd me — could go here or there, 
And find me ample fund of mirth, where 'er 

1 went — could sing — could dance — could keep 

awake 
Or sleep as well as any one. You 've sped me ! 
Concluded me — brought all my fair estate 



88 WILLIAM TELL. [act hi. 

Of rich content to melancholy end— 
Jagheli, I 'm in love. 

Jag, In love ! 

Mich, In love. 

Jag. Michael in love ! What, prithee, made thee fall 
In love ? 

Mich. A cup of wine. 

Jag, Another cup 

Will work thy cure. 

Mich. If thou could'st give me with 't 

The hand that help'd me to 't, and with the hand 
The lip that kiss'd the cup ere it touch'd mine — 
Nor was it yet the hand, — nor yet the lip ; 
But the arch smile that quiver'd on that lip, 
And seem'd to mock the motion of that hand, 
Moving in maiden staidness. Plague on 't! I 've 
Been posed at mine own trade — proved an ap- 
prentice 
With mine own tools. I 'm in love. I have it here ; 
Here in the very centre of my heart. 
That ever I should live to see the day 
I said I was in love. 

Jag, Pshaw! Michael; you've 

Been only laughing till you got a stitch 
In the side. 

Mich, A stitch ! If thou hast such another, 

It will not let thee sleep. But hither comes 
Thy lady's chamberlain, with dulcet voice, 
To call thee to her. Now her father 's out, 
Make profit of thy calling, master leech, 
Or follow it no more. 

Braun, [Entering.] My lady says 

She'll see you, sir; — come this way. 

Mich. Mind ! 

Jag. I will. 

[Exeunt Braun and Jagheli. 

Mich. [Solus.'] I 'd like to try a race with him in love. 
Can he compare with me in such a strife — 
With me could talk him dumb at any time ? 
Ere he began to woo, I should be done — 
But, to be done, a man must needs begin. 



scene ii.] WILLIAM TELL. 39 

Ag. [Entering.] What! mischief plotting ?~ ,f Fis a 
graceful cheat ! 

Rogue as he is, the man 's a man to love. 
Mich. Hang modesty ! 
Ag. Well said : when it doth die, 

No cousin goes of thine to put thee to 

The charge of mourning. 
Mich. I '11 take heart and woo 

Her soundly. 
Ag. Love have pity on her, then. 

Mich. This very hour I '11 tell her I 'm in love. 
Ag. This very hour she '11 tell thee thou 'rt a fool. 
Mich. I '11 marry her in a week. 
Ag. You '11 wait, perhaps, 

A little longer. 
Mich. Nay, a week 's too long: 

Three days from this. 
Ag. Why not to-morrow, sir ? 

You 'd be as near your wedding. 
Mich. Send her now, 

Kind Cupid — send her now. I 'm in the mood — 

In such a mood, that, were she marble, 

I 'd soften her — or ice, I 'd make her melt J 
Ag. But if she 's not in the mood — 
Mich. Now, Cupid, now, I do defy her 

In all her charms that vanquish' d at a sight, 

By every arrow in thy quiver, boy, 

If thou hast made me smart — she shan't go free, 

So send her to me. 
Ag. Who ever fear'd a boaster ? 
Mich. Cupid, now! 

Boy, I would stake my heart against thy wings, 

I 'd woo, and win, and wed her in a day! 
Ag. (coming forward) O, sir, you are the youth — 

that brought the leech. 
Mich. Ma'am? 

Ag. And a pretty leech it is you 've brought. 

Mich. Ma'am. 
Ag. He must needs have studied very hard, 

To be so sapient and profound a one; 

Where studied he, I pray you ? 
Mich. Studied, ma'am ? 



40 WILLIAM TELL. [act in. 

Ag. Yes, studied ! Thinkest thou a leech is made 

By only putting on the coat of one ? 

At such a rate, you would yourself be one. 

Instead of his good trusty serving man. 
Mich. His serving man ! 
Ag. Yes, sir, that pounds his drugs — 

Makes ready his emplastrums — 

Boils his decoctions, and makes up his powders, 

Ointments and mixtures : I am sure I 've seen you 

In your working clothes, without that Sunday chin 

You now have on, beating a tune upon 

The leech's mortar — to the which you sung 

In such melodious strain. 
Mich. Madam, — I, — I, 

Michael! Michael! 

Are you a man? 
Ag. What wages do you get, 

Besides the blows the leech bestows on you 

When you forget to make his nostrums up, 

Or mar them in the mixing ? 
Mich. Blows ! 

Ag. Ay, blows. 

Come, come; Don't look so fierce; you're just 
the man 

To take them kindly, as, indeed, you should. 

If the worthy leech 

But beats thee once week, he 's not more wise 

Than patient. 
Mich. Michael, thou hast found thy match ! 

But wilt thou yield without a struggle for 't? 

No ! Courage, Michael ! Now or never, man ! 

Ma'am I 
Ag. Bless me, sir, perhaps I may be wrong, 

And you are not his serving man ! 
Mich. No, ma'am. 

Ag. Nor anything unto the leech? 
Mich. No, ma'am. 

Ag. Then, sir, I '11 e'en make bold to tell you ? 

I think the leech is just as much a leech 

As you are. 
Mich. Ma'am! 

Ag. I 've found him out, sir. 



scene ii.] WILLIAM TELL. 4i 

Mich. Have you ? 

Ag. And found out you— you shall be flay'd alive, sir, 
For passing him for a leech. A pretty way 
To make my cousin well. 

Mich. Your cousin, ma'am! 

I took you for the lady's Abigail. 
Come, come, you are, or nature in her work 
Shows little thrift — you are her Abigail. 

Ag. I vow I 'm not. 

Mich. I '11 take an oath thou art her Abigail — 
As much as I 'm the leech's serving man — 
As much as he 's the leech. Sweet, we are both 
True serving men to love. And you 're the hire 
I serve for. [Catching her in his arms.] 

Ag. [Disengaging herself.] Stay ! who serves for hire 
doth wait 
'Till it be given him, ere he takes his hire, 
Not helps himself. 

Mich. But say you '11 give me mine- 

Ag. Hush ! some one comes. 

Mich. I 'm mute as faith 

That 's sworn to silence. Let me keep thy hand. 

[They retire. 

Enter Braun. 

Braun. Now, Braun, whoever after calls thee drone 
Doth lie, and men shall tell him so. Thou 'rt wise, 
Watchful, and keen of sight ; canst see, when all 
The house besides, with open eyes, are blind — 
Stone blind ! Thou shalt no more be Braun the 

dolt, 
The sluggard Braun, the hound, the hog; or 

Braun 
The good-for-naught ; or every thing but Braun 
Himself. Thou shalt be honest Braun — good 

Braun, 
Braun that can see a thing — can find it out 
Before the Seneschal ! brave Braun ! The leech 
Is but a cheat — my lady but a cheat — 
Her sickness all put on ; he is to come 
On Wednesday — No — to-day is Wednesday — No, 
Wednesday was yesterday. He is to come — 



42 WILLIAM TELL. [ ACT „,. 

I have forgot the day ; no matter. I 
Remember, he 's to come, and that's enough* 
He is to come at — plague upon the hour ! 
'Twas not at breakfast hour, or dinner hour 
Or any hour of meals or sleep — I 'm sure 
Of that ; but then, what signifies the hour, 
When I 've forgot the day ! Most true — most 

true! 
A lucky thought. No matter what the hour, 
Or what the day; 'tis what he purpos'd at 
The hour and day, concerns me to remember, 
And that I don't forget. He is to come 
To take away my lady mistress, who 
Is nothing loth. Remember that, good Braun,, 
And make thy fortune with the Seneschal. 

\Exit Braun. 
Ag. Undone, undone ! if thou remain'st 'tis death ! 
Mich. And if I fly, what fly I to but death ! 
Ag. Nay, save thy life ! 
Mich. You are its precious breath, 

And parted from thee 'tis no longer life. 
Ag. Could I believe thee! 
Mich. If thou would' st thou could' st: 

There lack of power is only lack of will. 
Ag. Nay, say not so : in sooth, I 've all the will. 
Mich. Then here I plight my faith to thee — 
Ag. Nay, hold. 

Mich. 'Tis done, sweet maid, and cannot be recall'd, 
So give me vow for vow. No sentinel 
Keeps watch beneath the casement where you 

sleep : 
There could I hang by aid of this kind night 
A ladder, such a one as lovers find 
Their way by to their mistress' arms, when doors 
Are barr'd against them. Thou'rt not happy 

here : 
This house of wolves is no abode for thee : 
Let 's to our friends, and briefly, ere we part, 
Resolve the means and time for meeting, ne'er 
To part again ! 
Ag. You '11 take the Abigail? 

Mich. If you will take the leech's serving man ! 

{Exeunt. 



scene in.] WILLIAM TELL. 43 



SCENE III— The Gate of Altorf. 

Enter Gesler and Albert. 

Alb. You're at the gate of Altorf. [Is returning'] 
Ges. Tarry, boy ! 

Alb. I would be gone ; I am waited for. 
Ges. Come back! 

Who waits for thee ? Come, tell me; I am rich 

And powerful, and can reward. 
Alb. 'Tis close 

On evening; I have far to go ; I 'm late. 
Ges. Stay ! I can punish, too. 
Alb. I might have left you, 

When on the hill I found you fainting, and 

The mist around you; but I stopp'd and cheer' d 
you, 

Till to yourself you came again. I offer'd 

To guide you, when you could not find the way, 

And I have brought you to the gate of Altorf. 
Ges. Boy, do you know me ? 
Alb. No. 

Ges. Why fear you, then, 

To trust me with your father's name ?— Speak. 
Alb. Why 

Do you desire to know it? 
Ges. You have served me, 

And I would thank him, if I chanc'd to pass 

His dwelling. 
Alb. 'T would not please him that a service, 

So trifling, should be made so much of! 
Ges. Trifling ? 

You 've sav'd my life. 
Alb. Then do not question me, 

But let me go. 
Ges. When I have learn' d from thee 

Thy father's name. Whathoa! [knocks] 
Sentinel, [within.] Who 's there ? 

Ges. Gesler ! [The gate is opened] 
Alb. Ha, Gesler! 



44 WILLIAM TELL, [act ii. 

Ges. [to the soldiers] Seize him. Wilt thou tell me 

Thy father's name? 
Alb. No! 

Ges. I can bid them cast thee 

Into a dungeon ! Wilt thou tell it now ? 
Alb. No. 

Ges. I can bid them strangle thee ! Wilt tell it ? 

Alb. Never. 
Ges. Away with him ! Send Sarnem to me. 

[Soldiers take off Albert through the gate. 

Behind that boy, I see the shadow of 

A hand, must wear my fetters, or 't will try 

To strip me of my power ; I have felt to day 

What 'tis to live at others' mercy. I 

Have tasted fear to very sickness, and 

Ow'd to a peasant boy my safety ! Ay, 

My life; and there does live the slave can say 

Gesler's his debtor! How I loath'd the free 

And fearless air with which he trod the hill ! 

Yea, though the safety of his steps was mine. 

I wish'd someway 

To find the parent nest of this fine eaglet, 

And harrow it! I 'd like to clip the broad 

And full-grown wing that taught his tender pinion 

So bold a flight. 

Enter Sarnem through the gate. 

Ha, Sarnem! Have the slaves, 

Attended me, returned ? 
Sar, They have 

Ges. You '11 see 

That every one of them be laid in fetters. 
Sar. I will. 

Ges. Didst see that boy just now ? 

Sar. That pass'd me ? 

Ges. Yes. 

Sar. A mountaineer. 

Ges. You d' say so, saw you him 

Upon the hills; he walks them like their lord ! 

I tell thee, Sarnem, looking on that boy, 



scene iv.] WILLIAM TELL. 45 

I felt I was not master of those hills. 

He has a father. Neither promises 

Nor threats could draw from him his name ; a father 

Who talks to him of liberty. I fear 

That man. 

Sar. He may be found. 

Ges. He must; and soon 

As found dispos'd of! I can see the man. 
He is as palpable to my sight as if 
He stood like you before me. I can see him 
Scaling that rock ; yea, I can feel him, Sarnem, 
As I were in his grasp, and he about 
To hurl me o'er that parapet ! I live 
In danger, till I find that man. Send parties 
Into the mountains, to explore them far 
And wide ; and if they chance to light upon 
A father, who expects his child, command them 
To drag him straight before us. Sarnem, Sarnem, 
They are not yet subdued. Some way to prove 
Their spirit; take this cap, and have it set 
Upon a pole in the market-place, and see 
That one and all do bow to it; whoe'er 
Resists, or pays the homage sullenly, 
Our bonds await him. Sarnem ; see it done. 

[Exit Sarnem through the gate. 

We need not fear the spirit would rebel 

But dares not : — that which dares we will not fear. 

[Exit, accompanied by soldiers, through the gate. 



SCENE IV — The Market Place 

Burghers and Peasants, with Pierre, Theodore, 
and Savoyard. 

CHORUS. 

Pierre. Come, come, another strain. 

Theo. A cheerful one. 



46 WILLIAM TELL. [act hi. 

Savo. What shall it be ? 

Theo. No matter, so 'tis gay. 

Begin ! 
Savo. You 'Jl join the burden ? 

Theo. Never fear. 

Go on. 

Savoyard plays and sings, during which Tell and 
Verner enter. The former leans upon his bow, 
and listens gloomily. 

The Savoyard from clime to clime 
Tunes his strain, and sings his rhyme. 
And still, whatever clime he sees, 
His eye is bright, his heart 's at ease. 
For gentle, simple, all reward 
The labours of the Savoyard. 

The rich forget their pride — the great 
Forget the splendour of their state, 
Whene'er the Savoyard they meet, 
And list his song, and say 'tis sweet, 
For titled, wealthy, — none regard 
The fortune of the Savoyard. 

But never looks his eye so bright, 

And never feels his heart so light, 

As when in beauty's smile he sees 

His strain is sweet, his rhyme doth please. 

O that 's the praise doth best reward 

The labours of the Savoyard. 

But tho' the rich retain'd their pride, 
And tho' the great their praise denied, 
Tho' beauty pleas'd his song to slight, 
His heart would smile, his eye be bright : 
His strain itself would still reward 
The labours of the Savoyard. 

[They shout, and laughingly accompany the 
Savoyard to the right upper toing, who 
exeunt through, with some of the crowd. 

Tell. What 's the heart worth that lends itself to glee 
With argument like theirs for bitterness? 



scene iv] WILLIAM TELL. 47 

Or is 't the melancholy sport of grief 

To look on pleasures and to handle them, 

That, when it lays the precious jewels down, 

It may perceive its poverty the more ? 

Methinks those cheeks are not exactly dress'd 

To please the hearts that own them. 
Ver. Doubt it not. 

They feel their thraldom. 
Tell. So they should — that 's hope— 

I' d have it gall them — eat into their flesh ! 

While they do fester there 's a remedy ; 

But for your callous slave I know no cure ! 

To-morrow brings the test will surely prove them. 

You'll not forget the hour — 
Ver. Be sure I will not. 

Tell Erni is warn'd ere this ; and Furth, I've said, 

Is ready. Fare you well. 
Ver. Stay, William ! Now 

Observe the people. 

[The people have gathered to one side, and 
look in the opposite direction with appre - 
hension and trouble : those who had gone 
off return. 

Tell. Ha ! they please me now — 

That 's honest— that 's sincere. I still preferr'd 
The seasons like themselves. — Let summer laugh, 
But give me winter with a hearty scowl : 
None of your hollow sunshine — fogs and clouds 
Become it best ! — I like them now — their looks 
Are just in season. There has surely been 
Some shifting of the wind, upon such brightness 
To bring so sudden lowering. 

Ver. We shall see. 

Pierre. 'Tis Sarnem ! 

Theo. What is that he brings with him ? 

Pierre. A pole; and on the top of it a cap 

That looks like Gesler's 1 could pick it from 

A hundred ! 

Theo. So could 1 !— My heart hath oft 

Leap'd at the sight of it. What comes he now 
To do? 



48 WILLIAM TELL. [act m. 

[Sarnem enters, with soldiers bearing Ges- 
ler's cap upon a pole, which he fixes into 
the ground ; the people looking on, in si- 
lence and amazement. The guards station 
themselves on the right of the pole. 

Sar. Ye men of Altorf ! 

Behold the emblem of your master's power 
And dignity. This is the cap of Gesler, 
Your governor ; let all bow down to it 
Who owe him love and loyalty. To such 
As shall refuse this lawful homage, or 
Accord it sullenly, he shows no grace, 
But dooms them to the penalty of bondage 
Till they 're instructed — 'tis no less their gain 
Than duty, to obey their master's mandate. 
Conduct the people hither, one by one, 
To bow to Gesler's cap. 

Tell. Have I my hearing ? 

Ver. Away ! Away ! 

Tell Or sight ?— They do it, Verner ! 

They do it !— Look ! — Ne'er call me man again ! 
I'll herd with the baser animals ! They keep 
Their stations. Still the dog 's a dog — the reptile 
Doth know his proper rank, and sinks not to 

The uses of the grade below him. Man ! 

Man ! that doth hold his head above them all, 
Doth ape them all. He 's man and he 's the reptile. 
Look ! — look ! Have I the outline of that caitiff 
Who to the servile earth doth bend the crown 
His God did rear for him to heaven ? 

Ver. Away, 

Before they mark us. 

Tell. No ! no ! — since I 've tasted, 

I'll e'en feed on. 

A spirit 's in me likes it. Draw me not 
Away ! I swear I will not leave off yet; 
I would be full— full— full ! I will not budge, 
Whatever be the cost! 

Sar. What smiled you at ? 

Pierre. You saw I bow'd as low as he did. 

Sar. But 



scene iv.] WILLIAM TELL. 49 

You smiled. How dared you smile? 

Tell. Good '.—good ! 

Sar. [Striking him.] Take that; 

And learn, when you do smile again, to do 't 
In season. 

Ver. Come away. 

Tell. Not yet— not yet. 

Why would you have me quit? the fare, you see, 
Grows better and better. 

Ver. You change colour. 

Tell. Do I ? 

And so do you. 

Sar. [Striking another.] Bow lower, slave! 

Tell. Do you feel 

That blow— my flesh doth tingle with't. Well 

done ! 
How pleasantly th« knave doth lay it on ! 
Well done! well done! I would it had been I ! 

Ver. You tremble, William. Come — you must not 
stay. 

Tell. Why not? — what harm is there? I tell thee, 
Verner, 
I know no difference 'twist enduring wrong 
And living in the fear on 't. I do wear 
The tyrant's fetters, when it only wants 
His nod to put them on — and bear his stripes 
When, that I suffer them, he needs but hold 
His finger up. Verner, you 're not the man 
To be content because a villain's mood 
Forbears. You're right — you're right! — have 
with you, Verner ! 

Enter Michael through the crowd. 

Sar. Bow, slave. [Tell stops and turns. 

Mich. For what ? 

Sar. Obey, and question then. 

Midi. I '11 question now, perhaps not then obey. 

Tell. A man ! a man ! 

Sar. 'Tis Gesler's will that all 

Bow to that cap. 
Mkh. Were it thy lady's cap, 

D 



50 WILLIAM TELL. [act hi. 

I 'd curtsey to it. 
Sar. Do you mock us, friend ? 

Mich. Not I. I'll bow to Gesler, if you please; 

But not his cap, nor cap of any he 

In Christendom. 
Tell. A man ! I say — a man ! 

Sar. I see you love a jest; but jest not now, 

Else may you make us mirth, and pay for 't too. 

Bow to the cap. 
Tell. The slave would humour him, 

Holds he but out. 
Sar. Do you hear? 

Mich. I do. 

Tell. Well done! 

The lion thinks as much of cowering 

As he does. 
Sar. Once for all, bow to that cap. 

Tell. Verner, let go my arm ! 

Sar. Do you hear me, slave ? 

Mich. Slave! 
Tell. Let me go ! 

Ver. He is not worth it, Tell-— 

A wild and idle gallant of the town. 
Tell. A man ! — I '11 swear a man ! — Don't hold me, 
Verner. 

Verner, let go my arm ! — Do you hear me, man ? 

You must not hold me, Verner. 
Sar. Villain, bow 

To Gesler's cap ! 
Mich. No — not to Gesler's self* 

Smr. Seize him. 

Tell. [Rushing forward.] Off, off, you base and hire- 
ling pack ! 

Lay not your brutal touch upon the thing 

God made in his own image. Crouch yourselves ; 

'Tis your vocation, which you should not call 

On free-born men to share with you — who stand 

Erect, except in presence of their God 

Alone ! 
Sar. What shrink you, cowards ? Must I do 

Your duty for you ? 
Tell. Let them stir— I 've scatter'd 



scene iv.] WILLIAM TELL. 51 

A flock of wolves that did outnumber them — 
For sport I did it — Sport ! — I scatter' d them 
With but a staff, not half so thick as this. 

[TVrests Sarnem's weapon from, him — Sar- 
nem flies — Soldiers fly. 

Men of Altorf, 

What fear ye? See what things you fear— the shows 

And surfaces of men. Why stand you wondering 

there ? 
Why look you on a man that's like yourselves, 
And see him do the deeds yourselves might do, 
And act them not? Or know you not yourselves 
That ye are men — that ye have hearts and thoughts 
To feel and think the deeds of men, and hands 
To do them? "You do say your prayers, and 

make 
" Confession, and you more do fear the thing 
" That kneels to God, than you fear God himself! 
" You hunt the chamois, and you've seen him take 
" The precipice, before he'd yield the freedom 
" His Maker gave him — and you are content 
" To live in bonds, that have a thought of freedom, 
" Which heaven ne'er gave the little chamois." 
Why gaze you still with blanched cheeks upon me ? 
Lack you the manhood even to look on, 
And see bold deeds achieved by others' hands ? 
Or is't that cap still holds your thralls to fear? — 
Be free, then — There ! Thus do I trample on 
The insolence of Gesler. [Throws down the pole. 
Sar. [Suddenly entering with Soldiers.] Seize him. 

\All the people^ except Verner and Michael/^. 

Tell. Ha! 

Surrounded ! 
Mich. Stand! I '11 back thee ! 

Ver. Madman! hence. 

[Forces Michael off. 
Sar, Upon him slaves! — Upon him all at once. 

[Tell, after a struggle, is secured and throivn 
to the ground, where they proceed to chain 
him. 

d2 



52 WILLIAM TELL. £act hi. 

Sar. Now raise hhn. 

[They raise him, heavily chained, burst- 
ing with indignation, and breathless. 

Tell. Slave! 

Sar. Rail on — thy tongue has yet its freedom. 

Tell. Slave! 

Sar. On to the castle with him. Forward! 

Tell Slave ! [Exeunt. 

Re-enter Michael, still held by Verner. 

Mich. There '.—There ! They bear him off 

In chains ! Why held you me? What was my life, 
To save that noble lion from the toils ? 

Ver. Michael, I knew thee not till now: I see 

Thou art a man to trust. If thou would' st free 
That lion from the toils, there is a way. 

Mich. Shew 't me. 

Ver. Before this time to-morrow, Michael, 

The cantons will be up in arms, and here 
In Altorf. 

Mich. Ha ! the tyrant's castle ! — 

Ver. Yes. 

Mich. Verner, thou'st saved a precious life to-day 
In saving- mine! — Let's see — how many friends 
Can I provide me with 'twixt this and night ? 

Ver. For what ? 

Mich, This night I mean to win a bride, 

And marry her to-morrow. 

Ver. Art thou mad ? 

Mich. I am — why not? — who'd not be mad upou 
The golden eve of his bright wedding day ? 
Don't wonder at me, Verner. — Do you see 
Yon turret ? 

Ver. Yes. 

Mich. Spy you a casement, too, 

Just half way up ? 

Ver. I do. 

Mich. This night to me 

That casement opens, and a cord, let down, 
Takes up a hempen ladder, strong enough 



scene iv.] WILLIAM TELL. 5S 

For me to mount — 

Ver. What then ? 

Mick. When I have won 

The prize I venture for,, and safe bestow'd, 
What hinders ten or twenty of my friends — 
What hinders them, I say, to lodge 
This night in yonder tower ? Come along ; 
I 've scanty time to bid so many guests. 
Come on, and as we go, possess me of 
Your plans, the minute you're to act upon them, 
With all the rest. Don't wonder at me, man ; 
You '11 bless the day that Michael took a wife. 

[Exeunt. 



END OF ACT III. 



54 WILLIAM TELL. [act iv. 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. — A Chamber in the Castle. 

Enter Gesler with Rodolph, Lutold, Gerard, and 
Officers. 

Gesler (to Rodolph) Double the guards! Stay! 
Place your trustiest men 
At the postern. Stop! You'd go with half 

your errand. 
I '11 tell you when to go. Let every soul 
Within the walls be under arms. The sick 
That do not keep their beds, or can rise from them, 
Must take a weapon ; if they can but raise 
A hand, we 've use for them. Away, now! Tumult 

[Exit Rodolph. 
Under our very brows ! They'll come 
In torrents from the hills, and with a flood 
O'er whelm us. [To Lutold.'] Lutold, say our 

orders are, 
On pain of death, no quarter shall be given ! 
Another word — Let them be men this once, 
I promise them the sacking of the town ! 
Without reserve, I give it them — of property 
Or soul ! I 've nothing further, sir. [Exit Lu- 
told.] I '11 rase 
Their habitations, hunt them from their hills, 
Extirminate them, ere I '11 live in fear ! 
What word now ? [To Rodolph, who re-enters. 
Rod. 'Twas a false alarm. The people 

Paid prompt submission to your order, one 
Alone resisted, whom they have secur'd, 
And bring in chains before you. 
Ges. So ! I breathe 

Again. 'Twas false, then, that our soldiers fled ? 



scene i.} WILLIAM TELL. 55 

Rod. 'Twas but a party of them fled, my lord; 

Which, re-enforc'd, return' d, and soon o'er- 
power'd 

The rash offender. 
Ges. What, fled they from one ? 

A single man ? How many were there? 
Rod. Four, 

With Sarnem. 
Ges. Sarnem ! Did he fly ? 

Rod. He did; 

But 'twas for succour. 
Ges. Succour ! One to four, 

And four need succour? I begin to think 

We 're sentinel'd by effigies of men ; 

Not men themselves ! — and Sarnem, too ? What 
kind 

Of man is he can make a tiger cower ? 

Yea, and with backers ! I should like to see 

That man. 
Rod. He's here. 

Ges. I 'm on the hills again. 

I see their bleak tops looking down upon me, 

And think I hear them ask me with a scowl 

If I would be their master ! Do not sheathe 

Your swords ! Stand near me! Beckon some 
of those 

About me. I would be attended. If 

He stirs, despatch him. 
Rod. He's in chains, my lord. 

Ges. I see — I see he is. 

Enter Sarnem, with Tell in chains, through centre, 
and guarded. 

Sar. Down, slave ! 

Behold the governor. Down ! down ! and beg 

For mercy. 
Ges. [Seated.] Does he hear ? 

Sar. Debate it not. 

Be prompt. Submission, slave! Thy knee! 
Thy knee ! 

Or with thy life thou play est. 



56 WILLIAM TELL. [act IV. 

Rod. Let 's force him to the ground. 

Ges. Can I believe 

My eyes ? — He smiles ! 
Ger. Why don't you smite him for that look ? 
Ges. He grasps 

His chains as he would make a weapon of them 

To lay the smiter dead. What kind of man 

Is this, that looks in thraldom more at large 

Than they who lay it on him ? 
Rod. Lo you how 

The caitiff scowls ! Pull out his eyes. 
Lut. Lop off 

A limb for him. 
Ges. A heart accessible as his to trembling 

The rock or marble hath. They more do fear 

To inflict than he to suffer. Each one calls 

Upon the other to accomplish that 

Himself hath not the manhood to begin. 

Why don't they take him from my sight ? Behold, 

He has brought them to a pause; and there they 
stand, 

Like things entranced by some magician's spell. 

[Rises.'] They must not see 

Me thus. Come, draw thy breath with ease — 
Thou 'rt Gesler— 

Their lord ; and he 's a slave thou look 'st upon. 

'Tis only in the absence of thy wrath 

He braves it. Let it show itself — at once 

He 's passive as the dust thou tread 'st upon. — 

Why speak 'st thou not? 
Tell. For wonder. 

Ges. Wonder? 

Tell. Yes, 

That thou should 'st seem a man. 
Ges. What should 1 seem ? 

Tell. A monster ! 

Ges. Ha! Beware— Think on thy chains. 

Tell. Tho' they were doubled, and did weigh me down, 

Prostrate to earth, methinks I could rise up 

Erect, with nothing but the honest pride 
Of telling thee, usurper, to the teeth 

Thou art a monster! Think upon my chains! 



scene I.] WILLIAM TELL. 57 

Show me the link of them, which, could it speak, 
Would give its evidence against my word ! 
Think on my chains ! — Think on my chains! 
How came they on me ? 

Ges. Darest thou question me? 

Tell, Darest thou not answer ? 

Ges. Do I hear? 

Tell. Thou dost. 

Ges. Beware my vengeance. 

Tell Can it more than kill ? 

Ges. Enough — it can do that. 

Tell. No ; not enough : 

It cannot take away the grace of life — 
Its comeliness of look that virtue gives — 
Its port erect with consciousness of truth — 
Its rich attire of honourable deeds — 
Its fair report that 's rife on good men's tongues: 
It cannot lay its hands on these, no more 
Than it can pluck his brightness from the sun, 
Or with polluted finger tarnish it. 

Ges. But it can make thee writhe. 

Tell. It may. 

Ges. And groan. 

Tell. It may; and I may cry 

Go on, though it should make me groan again. 

Ges. Whence comest thou? 

Tell. From the mountains. Would 'st thou learn 
What news from them ? 

Ges. Canst tell me any ? 

Tell. Ay ; 

They watch no more the avelanche. 

Ges. Why so? 

Tell. Because they look for thee. The hurricane 
Comes unawares upon them ; from its bed, 
The torrent breaks, and finds them in its track. 

Ges. What do they, then ? 

Tell. Thank heaven, it is not thou ! 

Thou hast perverted nature in them. The earth 
Presents her fruits to them, and is not thank'd : 
The harvest sun is constant, and they scarce 
Return his smile: their flocks and herds increase, 
And thev look on as men who count a loss: 



58 WILLIAM TELL. [act iv. 

They hear of thriving* children born to them, 

And never shake the teller by the hand ; 

While those they have, they see grow up and 
flourish, 

And think as little of caressing them, 

As they were things a deadly plague had smit. — 

There's not a blessing heaven vouchsafes them, 
but 

The thought of thee doth wither to a curse, 

As something they must lose — and richer were 

To lack!' 
Ges. That 's right ! I'd have them like their hills 

That never smile, tho' wanton summer tempt 

Them e'er so much. 
Tell. But they do sometimes smile. 
Ges. Ay ! — when is that ? 

Tell. When they do talk of vengeance. 
Ges. Vengeance ! Dare 

They talk of that? 
Tell. Ay, and expect it, too. 

Ges. From whence ? 
Tell. From heaven ! 

Ges. From heaven ? 

Tell. And the true hands 

Are lifted up to it on every hill 

For justice on thee. 
Ges. Where 's thy abode ? 

Tell. I told thee in the mountains 

Ges. How lies it — north or south ? 
Tell. Nor north, nor south. 

Ges. Is 't to the east or west, then ? 
Tell. Where it lies 

Concerns thee not. 
Ges. It does. 

Tell. And if it does, 

Thou shall not learn. 
Ges. Art married ? 

Tell. Yes. 

Ges. And hast a family ? 
Tell. A son. 

Ges. A son ! 

Sarnem. 
Sar. My lord, the boy. 



scene i.} WILLIAM TELL. 59 

[Gesler signs to S arnem to keep silence, and, 
whispering, sends him off. 

Tell. The boy !— what boy ? 

Is 't mine ? — and have they netted my young 

fledgeling ? 
Now heaven support me, if they have! He'll 

own me, 
And share his father's ruin ! But a look 
Would put him on his guard — yet how to give it. 
Now, heart, thy nerve : forget thou 'rt flesh : be 

rock. 
They come — they com* ! 

That step — that step — that little step, so light 
Upon the ground, how heavy does it fall 
Upon my heart! 1 feel my child! — 'Tis he!— 
We can but perish. 

Enter S arnem with Albert, whose eyes are rivetted on 
Tell's bow, which Sarnem carries. 

Alb. 'Tis my father's bow; 

For there's my father ! I'll not own him tho\ 
Sar. See! 
Alb. What ? 

Sar. Look there! 

Alb. I do ; what would you have 

Me see? 
Sar. Thy father. 

Alb. That is not my father. 

Tell. My boy — my boy ! — my own brave boy ! — He 's 

safe! 
Sar. [Aside to Gesler.] They 're like each other. 
Ges. Yet I see no sign 

Of recognition to betray the link 

Unites a father and his child. 
Sar. My lord, 

I 'm sure it is his father. Look at them. 

It may be 

A preconcerted thing 'gainst such a chance 

That they survey each other coldly thus. 

Besides, with those who lead their mountain life, 

The passions are not taken by surprise 



60 WILLIAM TELL. [act it* 

As ready as with us. They do commune 
From day to day with nature's wonder, till 
They see her very terrors without awe, 
And catch from her her stern and solemn look, 
That e'en their joy seems thoughtful. 

Ges. We shall try. 

Lead forth the caitiff. 

Sar. To a dungeon? 

Ges. No -, 

Into the court. 

Sar. The court, my lord ? 

Ges. And send 

To tell the headsman to make ready. Quick ! 
The slave shall die ! You mark'd the boy ? 

Sar. I did. 

He started — 'tis his father. 

Ges. We shall see. 

Away with him ! 

Tell. Stop !— Stay ! 

Ges. What would you ? 

Tell. Time! 

A little time to call my thoughts together. 

Ges. Thou, shalt not have a minute. 

Tell. Some one, then, 

To speak with. 

Ges. Hence with him ! 

Tell. A moment !— Stop ! 

Let me speak to the boy. 

Ges. Is he thy son? 

Tell. And if 

He were, art thou so lost to nature, as 
To send me forth to die before his face ? 

Ges. Well!— Speak with him. Now, Sarnem, mark 
them well. 

Tell. Thou dost not know me, boy— and well for thee 
Thou dost not. I'm the father of a son 
About thy age— I dare not tell thee where 
To find him, lest he should be found of those 
' Twere not so safe for him to meet with. Thou, 
I see, wast born like him upon the hills ; 
If thou shouldst 'scape thy present thraldom, he 
May chance to cross thee ; if he should, I pray thee 



scene I.] WILLIAM TELL. 61 

Relate to him what has been passing here, 
And say I laid my hand upon thy head, 
And said to thee — if he were here, as thou art, 
Thus would I bless him. — May'st thou live, my 

boy ! 
To see thy country free, or die for her 
As Idol 

Sar. Mark! he weeps. 

Tell. Were he my son, 

He would not shed a tear ! He would remember 
The cliff where he was bred and learn'd to scan 
A thousand fathoms' depth of nether air ; 
Where he was train' d to hear the thunder talk, 
And meet the lightning eye to eye — where last 
We spoke together — when I told him death 
Bestow'd the brightest gem that graces life — 
Embrac'd for Virtue's sake — He shed a tear ! — 
Now were he by I'd talk to him, and his cheek 
Should never blanch, nor moisture dim his eye — 
I'd talk to him— 

Sar. He falters ! 

Tell. • Tis too much ! 

And yet it must be done ! — I 'd talk to him — 

Ges. Of what? 

Tell. The mother, tyrant, thou dost make 

A widow of! 1 'd talk to him of her. 

I 'd bid him tell her, next to liberty, 
Her name was the last word my lips pronounc'd. 
And I would charge him never to forget 
To love and cherish her, as he would have 
His father's dying blessing rest upon him ! 
Sur. You see, as he doth prompt the other acts. 

Tell. So well he bears it, he doth vanquish me. 
My boy — my boy ! — O for the hills, the hills, 
To see him bound along their tops again, 
With liberty, so light upon his heel, 
That, like the Chamois, he flings behind him, 

Sar. Was there not all the father in that look ? 
Ges. Yet 'tis 'gainst nature. 

Sar. Not if he believes 

To own the son would be to make him share 
The father's death. 



62 WILLIAM TELL. [act iy. 

Ges. I did not think of that ! — 

I thank thee, Sarnera, for the thought — ' Tis well 
The boy is not thy son — I 've destin'd him 
To die along with thee. 

Tell. To die !— For what ? 

Ges. For having brav'd my power, as thou hast . Lead 
Them forth. 

Tell. He's but a child. 

Ges. Away with them I 

Tell. Perhaps an only child. 

Ges. No matter. 

Tell. He 

May have a mother. 

Ges. So the viper hath ; 

And yet who spares it for the mother's sake ? 

Tell. I talk to stone ! 1 talk to it as tho' 

'Twere flesh ; and know 'tis none. — No wonder — 

I've 
An argument might turn as hard a thing 
To flesh — to softest, kindliest flesh, as e'er 
Sweet Pity chose to lodge her fountains in, 
But I do talk to stone.— I'll talk to it 
No more. Come, my boy — 
I taught thee how to live — I '11 shew thee how 
To die— 

Ges. He is thy child. 

Tell. He is my child. 

Ges. I 've wrung a tear from him ! Thy name ? 

Tell. My name ?— 

It matters not to keep it from thee now : 
My name is Tell. 

Ges. Tell !— William Tell ? 

Tell. The same. 

Ges. What ! He so fam'd bove all his countrymen 
For guiding o'er the stormy lake the boat ? 
And such a master of his bow, 'tis said 
His arrows never miss ! — Indeed — I'll take 
Exquisite vengeance ! — Mark! I'll spare thy life, 
Thy boy's too — Both of you are free — on one 
Condition. 

Tell. Name it. 

Ges. I would see you make 



scene I.] WILLIAM TELL. 6S 

A trial of your skill with that same bow 

You shoot so well with. 
Tell. Name the trial you 

Would have me make. 
Ges. You look upon your boy 

As tho' instinctively you guess'd it. 
Tell. Look 

Upon my boy ! — What mean you ? Look upon 

My boy as tho' I guess'd it ! — Guess'd the trial 

You'd have me make ! — Guess'd it 

Instinctively ! You do not mean— No — No — 

You would not have me make a trial of 

My skill upon my child ! — Impossible ! 

I do not guess your meaning. 
Ges, I would see 

Thee hit an apple at the distance of 

A hundred paces. 
Tell, Is my boy to hold it. 

Ges. No. 

Tell. No ! — I'll send the arrow thro' the core I 

Ges. It is to rest upon his head. 
Tell. Great heaven, 

You hear him ! 
Ges. Thou dost hear the choice I give — 

Such trial of the skill thou'rt master of, 

Or death to both of you ; not otherwise 

To be escap'd. 
Tell. O monster. 

Ges. Wilt thou do it ? 

Alb. He will ! He will ! 
Tell. Ferocious monster ! — Make 

A father murder his own child. 
Ges. Take off 

His chains if he consents. 
Tell. With his own hand ! 

Ges. Does he consent ? 
Alb. He does. 

[Gesler signs to his Officers, who proceed to 
take off Tell's chains, Tell all the while 
unconscious of what they do. 

Tell. With his own hand ! 



34 WILLIAM TELL. [act iv. 

Murder his child with his own hand— This hand ! 

The hand I've led him when an infant by! — 

' Tis beyond horror — ' tis most horrible 

Amazement ! — ' Tis too much for flesh and blood 

To bear — Men should be made of steel to stand it : 

And I believe I am myself about 

To turn to some such thing ; for feeling grows 

Benumb'd within me, that I seem to lose 

Almost the power of hating him, and keep 

A calm, when heaven and earth give warrants for 

A tempest — [his chains fall off \] What's that 

you have done to me? 
Villains ! put on my chains again— My hands 
Are free from blood ; and have no gust for it 
That they should drink my child's ! — Here ! — 

here !— I'll not 
Murder my boy for Gesler. 

Alb. Father— Father ! 

You will not hit mo, father ! — 

Tell. Hit thee !— Send 

The arrow thro' thy brain — or, missing that, 
Shoot out an eye — or, if thine eye escapes, 
Mangle the cheek I 've seen thy mother's lips 
Cover with kisses ! — Hit thee !— Hit a hair 
Of thee, and cleave thy mother's heart — Who's he 
Asks me to do it? — Shew him me, the monster! 
Make him perceptible unto my reason 
And heart ! — In vain my senses vouch for him ; 
I hear he lives — I see it — but it is 
A prodigy that nature can't believe ! 

Ges. Dost thou consent ? 

Tell. Give me my bow and quiver — 

Ges. For what ? 

Tell To shoot my boy ! 

Alb. No — father— no ! 

To save me ! — You '11 be sure to hit the apple. 
Will you not save ine, father ? 

Tell. Lead me forth— 

I'll make the trial ! 

Alb. Thank you ! 

Tell. Thank me ?— Do 

You know for what ? — — I will not make the trial 



scene II.] WILLIAM TELL. 65 

To take him to his mother in my arms, 

And lay him down a corse before her ! 
Ges. Then 

He dies this moment — and you certainly 

Do murder him whose life you have a chance 

To save, and will not use it. 
Tell. Well— I 'lido it: 

I '11 make the trial. 
Alb. Father— 

Tell. Speak not to me : 

Let me not hear thy voice — Thou must be dumb ; 

And so should all things be — Earth should be 
dumb, 

And heaven — unless its thunder mutter'd at 

The deed, and sent a bolt to stop it ! — Give me 

My bow and quiver ! 
Ges. When all 's ready. 

Tell. Well!— 

Lead on ! 

[Exeunt. 



SCENE II. — Enter, slowly, several Citizens, as if 
observing something following them, V e r n e r , and 
Theodore. 

Ver. The pace they 're moving at is that of men 
About to do the work of death. Some wretch 
Is doom'd to suffer — Should it be my friend — 
Should it be Tell ! 

Tlteo. No doubt 'tis some good man. 

Ver. Poor Switzerland — poor country ! Not a son 
Is left to thee that 's worthy to be one. 
'Tis not a common man, with such parade, 
They lead to death : I count four castellains 
Already — 

Theo. There's a fifth. 

Ver. And Sarnem too f 

Do you see him ? 

Theo. Yes ; and Gesler follows him. 

Who can it be ? 



60 WILLIAM TELL. [act ir. 

Ver. We Ml see. He 's coming now— 

'Tis William Tell ! 
Theo. Verner, do you know the boy 

That follows him ? 
Ver. A boy ! — It is his son ! 

What horror 's to be acted ? Do you see 

The headsman ? 
Theo. No ! — I see no headsman there, 

No apparatus for the work of death. 

Perhaps they 're not to suffer ! 
Ver* Lo you how 

The women clasp their hands, and now and then 

Look up to heaven ! You see that some do weep. 

No headsman 's there ; but Gesler 's at no loss 

For means of cruelty because there lacks 

A headsman ! 
Pierre, [rushing in\ Horrible ! — most horrible 

Decree ! — To save his own and Albert's life, 

Tell is to shoot an apple from the head 

Of his own child ! 

Enter slowly Burghers and Women — Lutold, Ro- 
dolph, Gerard, Sarnem, Gesler, Tell, Al- 
bert — a Soldier, bearing TelVs how and quiver — 
another, with a basket of apples — Soldiers, fyc. 

Ges. That is your ground. Now shall they measure 
thence 

A hundred paces. Take the distance. 
Tell. Is 

The line a true one ? 
Ges. True or not, what is 't 

To thee ? 
Tell. What is 't to me ?— A little thing, 

A very little thing — a yard or two 

Is nothing here or there — were it a wolf 

I shot at ! — Never mind. 
Ges. Be thankful, slave, 

Our grace accords thee life on any terms. 
Tell. I will be thankful, Gesler !— Villain, stop ! 

You measure to the sun. 
Ges. And what of that ? 



»cene ii.] WILLIAM TELL. t7 

What matter whether to or from the sun ? 

Tell. I'd have it at my back. — The sun should shine 
Upon the mark, and not on him that shoots. 
I cannot see to shoot against the sun — 
I will not shoot against the sun ! 

Ges. Give him his way ! — Thou 'st cause to bless my 
mercy. 

Tell. I shall remember it. I 'd like to see 
The apple I'm to shoot at. 

Ges. Stay ! — Show me 

The basket! There— 

Tell. You 've pick'd the smallest one. 

Ges. I know I have. 

Tell. O ! do you ? But you see 

The colour on 't is dark — I 'd have it light 
To see it better. 

Ges. Take it as it is : 

Thv skill will be the greater if thou hit'st it. 

Tell. True— true !— I didn't think of that—I wonder 

I did not think of that. Give me some chance 

To save my boy ! [Throws away the apple with all 

hisforce\ 1 will not murder him 
If I can help it — for the honour of 
The form thou weart's, if all the heart is gone. 

Ges. Well ; choose thyself. 

Tell. Have I a friend among 

The lookers on ? 

Ver. Here, Tell ! 

Tell. I thank thee, V erner ! 

He is a friend runs out into a storm 
To shake a hand with us. I must be brief 
When once the bow is bent, we cannot take 
The shot too soon. Verner, whatever be 
The issue of this hour, the common cause 
Must not stand still. Let not to-morrow's sun 

Set on the tyrant's banner ! Verner ! Verner ! 

The boy '.—the boy !— Think'st thou he has the 

courage 
To stand it? 

Ver. Yes. 

Tell. Does he tremble ? 

Ver. No. 



68 WILLIAM TELL. [act iv. 

Tell. Art sure ? 

Ver. I am. 

Tell. How looks he? 

Ver. Clear and smilingly. 

If you doubt it — look yourself. 

Tell. No — no— my friend, 

To hear it is enough. 

Ver. He bears himself 

So much above his years — 

Tell. I know !— I know. 

Ver. With constancy so modest — 

Tell. I was sure 

He would — 

Ver. And looks with such relying love 

And reverence upon you — 

Tell. Man ! Man ! Man ! 

No more ! Already I 'm too much the father 
To act the man ! — Verner, no more, my friend ! 
I would be flint — flint — flint. Don't make me feel 
I'm not — you do not mind me ! — Take the boy 
And set him, Verner, with his back to me. 
Set him upon his knees — and place this apple 
Upon his head, so that the stem may front me 
Thus, Verner ; charge him to keep steady — tell him 
I'll hit the apple ! — Verner, do all this 
More briefly than I tell it thee. 

Ver. ' Come, Albert ! 

[Leading him behind. 

Alb. May I not speak with him before I go ? 

Ver. No— 

Alb. I would only kiss his hand. 

Ver. You must not. 

Alb. I must ! — I cannot go from him without ! 

Ver. It is his will you should. 

Alb. His will is it? 

I am content then — Come. 

Tell. My boy ! 

[Holding out his arms to him. 

Alb. My father ! 

[Rushing into TelVs arms. 

Tell. If thou canst bear it, should not I ?— Go now, 
My son— and keep in mind that I can shoot — 



scene' n.j WILLIAM TELL. 69 

Go, boy — Be thou but steady, I will hit 

The apple — Go ! — God bless thee — go. — My bow ! 

Thou wilt not fail thy master, wilt thou : — Thou 

Hast never fail'd him yet, old servant — No 

I 'm sure of thee — I know thy honesty, 

Thou'rt stanch — stanch. — I 'd deserve to find thee 

treacherous, 
Could I suspect thee so — Come, I will stake 
My all upon thee ! — Let me see my quiver. 

Ges. Give him a single arrow. 

Tell. Do you shoot ? 

Lut. I do. 

Tell. Is 't so you pick an arrow, friend. 

The point you see is bent — the feather jagged, 
That 's all the use 'tis fit for. [breaks it.] 

Ges, Let him have 

Another. 

Tell. Why 'tis better than the first, 

But yet not good enough for such au aim 
As I'm to take — 'Tis heavy in the shaft : 

I '11 not shoot with it ! Let me see my quiver. 

Bring it ! — 'Tis not one arrow in a dozen 

I 'd take to shoot with at a dove, much less 

A dove like that — What is 't you fear? 1 'm but 

A naked man — a wretched naked man ! 

Your helpless thrall — alone in the midst of you, 

With every one of you a weapon in 

His hand — What can I do in such a strait 

With all the arrows in that quiver ? — Come ! 

Will you give it me or not ? 

Ges. Jt matters not. 

Show him the quiver — You 're resolv'd I see 
Nothing shall please you. 

Tell. Am I so ?— That's strange, 

That's very strange ! — See if the boy is ready. 

Ver. He is. 

Tell. I 'm ready too ! — Keep silence for 

Heaven's sake, and do not stir — and let me have 
Your prayers — your prayers— and be my witnesses 
That if his life 's in peril from my hand, 
'Tis only for the chance of saving it. 



7© WILLIAM TELL. [act iv. 

Now, friends, for mercy's sake, keep motionless 
And silent. 

[Tell bends his bow, and fixes the arrow. 
As he raises the bow to take aim, one of 
the spectators drops lifeless — Tell lowers 
the bow. 

Tell. Do you see I 

Ges. Away with him !—^ 

Go on ! 

[He raises the bow again, and when he has 
brought it to his eye, a woman shrieks and 
falls fainting in the arms of another. 

Tell. Do you hear ? 

Ges. Remove her, slaves — Go on ! 

Tell. I will. 

[Tell shoots, and a shout of exultation bursts 
from the crowd. T ell's head drops on his 
bosom ; he with difficulty supports himself 
upon his bow. 

Ver* [rushing in with Albert^ Thy boy is safe — no 

hair of him is touch'd. 
Alb. Father, I'm safe — Your Albert's safe— Dear 
father, 

Speak to me ! — Speak to me ! 
Ver. He cannot, boy ! 

Alb. You grant him life ? 
Ges. 1 do. 

Alb. And we are free ? 

Ges. You are. [crossing angrily behind.~\ 
Alb. Thank heaven ! — Thank heaven ! 

Ver. Open his vest, 

And give him air. 

[Albert opens his father's vest, and the ar- 
row drops. Tell starts—fixes his eyes on 
Albert, and clasps him to his breast. 

Tell My boy!— My boy! 



scene 11.3 WILLIAM TELL. 7L 

Ges. For what 

Hid you that arrow in your breast ? — Speak, slave ! 

Tell. To kill thee, tyrant, had I slain my boy ! 

Ges. My Guards !— -Secure him ! 

Tell. Tyrant ! every hill shall blaze 

With vengeance. — 

Ges. Slaves obey me. 

Tell. Liberty 

Shall at thy downfall shout from every peak ! 

Ges. Away with him. 

Tell. My country shall be free ! 

[Exeunt. 



end or ACT IV. 



72 WILLIAM TELL. [act v. 



ACT V. 

SCENE I. — Gesler's Castle. A Lake in view. 

Enter Gesler, Rodolph, and Officers. 

Ges. How say you ? — Uri in commotion ? 

Rod. Yes ; 

Our scouts report on sure intelligence. 

Ges. Well, what of Uri! [Calling] Sarnem! [To 
Rodolph] Go, patrol 
The town, and take especial note of all 
You see, and straight report to Sarnem. [Exit 
Rodolph.] Sarnem ! 

Sar. [entering] My lord. 

Ges. The bark — is 't ready ? hurry it ! 

And lead him from his dungeon. [Exit Sarnem.] 

He shall change 
His prison for a stronger; then, perhaps, 
I '11 rest. 

Yet if I close my eyes, sleep only draws 
Her curtain round my thoughts, to shut them in 
With restlessness, from which they turn to watching 
As to refreshment. 

Then I 'm on the hills, 
And he is with me there, their master : at 
His call, the clouds do gather, and let loose 
Their thunders on me, till I'm deafen' d. with 
Their din, and feel their lightnings blasting me! 
The dark ravine then opens at my feet, 
And down I splash into the torrent, where 
The cataract begins its fearful leap, 
That drags me over with't. Or on the brink 
He sets me of the cliff, and makes me scan 
The mountain's base, that lies direct below, 
Too deep for eye to bear; till with the sight 



scene I.] WIIJLIAM TELL. 73 

Maddening, I spring into the void, and straight 
Go spinning down the air, — that when I wake, 
Convuls'd for very lack of breath, I can't 
Believe but still I 'm falling. 

Sar. [Entering.'] Now, my lord — 

Ges. [Catching hold of him] Sarnem! 

Sar. My lord, what moves you ? 

Ges. We are so 

Beset with traitors, Sarnem, we forget 
The voices of our friends! — The bark is ready ? 

Sar. It is, my lord. 

Ges. Our prisoner, too ? That 's well! 

What kind of night ? 

Sar. Clear star-light ; — not a breath 

Of wind! 

Ges. That 's strange ! 

Sar. My lord ! 

Ges. I say, 'tis strange 

The night should be so calm. I 'in glad of it, 
And yet I marvel at it. I did look 
To find it was o'ercast; 'tis very strange. 
Why should I look for frowns to the mild night 
That seems dispos'd to send me none? What's 
that ? [Noise of wind and distant tempest.] 

Sar. The wind is rising. 

Ges. Did I not say it, Sarnem ? 

Sar. You did, my lord. 

Ges. The night will be a rough one. 

Re-enter Rodolph. 
Rod. Lutold, my lord, reports the town is quiet, 

Save that the burghers frequent pass from house 

To house, with looks that argue restlessness, 

And brooding discontent. [Exit Rodolph. 

Ges. Is this revolt ? [Louder wind.] 

You'll see the guards are trebled, Sarnem. Hark ! 

Now you may hear the wind ! 
Sar. 'Twill be a storm. 

My lord, 'twere well you ventur'd not yourself; 

Those lakes are dangerous at night ; the course 

Is long ! 
Ges. No, Sarnem ; I must see the slave 



?4 WILLIAM TELL. [act r« 

Dispos'd myself. My castle on the lake's 
Impregnable ; I '11 take him there, and plan 
Some means of signal punishment, to check 
The spirit of revolt. The storm I fear 
Is that we carry with us. Tell 's the cloud 
From which I dread a thunderbolt ! besides, 
He is a hostage worth my life. [Aside."] The boy 
Remains — should they attempt the castle, lead him 
To the walls ; and threaten them, if once a bow 
Is bent, to sacrifice him in their sight. 

Rod. [Re-entering. 1 My lord, we ' ve news of gatherings 
in the hills ! 

Ges. A storm, indeed, is rising. Come, the boat. 

[Exeunt Gesler and Officers. 

Sar. They 're fairly off. The wind's against them; 
but 

It blows a gentle tho' a fitful breeze. 

I would not be in Gesler's place. 
Rod. Why so? 

Sar. Something will chance to-night. 
Rod. Why think 'st thou so ? 

Sar. I know not why — The look he gave, before 

He left us— did you mark it, Rodolph? 
Rod. Yes. 

Sar* I never saw a look like that. It lower' d 

To very darkness. Fate was in that look. 

C ome, Rodolph, to our charge, We must prepare 

To meet a storm to-night. [Exeunt. 



SCENE II. — Supposed to be in the vicinity of the 
Castle. 

Enter Waldman and Michael. 

Wald. I sore mistrust thee, Michael. If thou play'st 

The trifler with me now — 
Mich. Dear father, fear not. 

Wald. But I do fear thee, boy ; and if not thee, 

I fear this stormy night. Dost hear the thunder ? 

[Thunder. 



scene ii.] WILLIAM TELL. 75 

Mich. I do; but it is distant. [Thunder. 

Wold. There again ! 

Mich. It sounds in the direction of the lake. 

Wald. Why hast thou brought me hither ? 

Mich, Worthy sire, 

Thou said 'st I 'd never marry till my teeth 
Were gone. To show thee to thy heart's content 
The prophecy was wrong, I ' ve brought thee hither 
To help me to take home my gentle bride, 
Whom thou shalt see anon. 

Wald. He's past all hope. 

Am I thy butt to play a jest upon ? 
Is this a place to jest ? 

Mich. No place more safe : 

No sentinel is here to mar a jest, 
Were I disposed for one. [Thunder and rain. 

Wald. The storm is on. 

Would 'st hold me here to bide this pelting storm ? 

Mich. Dear father, hush, unless you 'd spoil my wed- 
ding, 
And mar the only chance of making me 
A sober man. And, look, my bridesmen come. 

Enter J agheli and a band of young men y with a rope 
ladder. 

Welcome, J agheli ! Father, my chief man, 

Who means to take example by your son — 

Marry a wife, and ever after live 

The gravest man in Altorf. 
Wald. Where wilt thou get thy bride, then ? 
Mich. Thou shalt see. 

Ha ! there 's the light — Jagheli, that's the case- 
ment. 

Come on ! Friends, stay you here. And, father, 

p ra y 

Command your patience till I give you proof 
Such as shall full content you, that I mean 
With all my heart to be a married man. 

\_Exeunt Michael and Jagheli with rope ladder. 
Wald. Friends, can you help me to a clue to find 



76 WILLIAM TELL. [act t. 

This riddle out? 

Theo. We 're sworn to secrecy, 

And may not answer you. 

Wald. 1 see — I see- 

He 's not content to make a jest of me, 
But brings his friends to join him in the laugh. 
He wed ! — He take a wife ! —He brings some boy, 
Dress'd in his sister's gown and tucker, with 
His voice upon the crack — to pass him for 
His bride upon me. I '11 begone, and baulk 

[more thunder. 
His most irreverent mirth ! Good night, my 

friends, 
I give you joy of this fair night. 

Enter Michael and Agnes — Jagheli and Anneli. 

Mich. Most trusting love, 

Fear not ; I'll give thee to safe warding, till 
I take thee to mine own. Fair Anneli, 
Go with thy cousin. Father, to thy care 
We trust these jewels that shall keep us rich 
For life ! Don't wonder, sweet — There's not a 

care 
To-night doth cost thee, but each after day 
Shall bring as many golden joys as hours 
To pay thee for. [Storm] 

Wald. A woman as I live ! 

An. Dear coz ! 

Let us go back. 

Ag. Nay, coz, we'll e'en go on. 

These gallants trusted once, to trust them on 
They say is sometimes to secure the debt. [Storm. 

Wald. Fair lady, 1 will be your bond, to see 

Due payment made— if you will take me for 't. 

Mich. Dear father, when you hear me jest again 

You '11 drink your grandson's health that is to be, 
And pardon me for him — Away ! — Away ! 

[Thunder and rain. 
These heads do ask a kinder canopy 
Than this rough sky affords. 

Wald. Go you not with us ? 



scene in.] WILLIAM TELL. 77 

Mich. No ; our brides forbid. 

Nor may we see them till we bring the priest 
To visit them to-morrow — And besides 
We've comrades here, bright gallants, as our- 
selves 
Were once, of whom we 'd take a handsome leave. 
This night, that parts us thus, we will forgive, 
For the fair fellows that shall follow it. 
Good night — sound sleep — sweet dreams — good 
night — good night ! 

[Exeunt Waldman, Agnes, and Anneli. 

Now friends, the casement ; there the ladder 

hangs ; 
Climb fast and silently. The chamber on 
The postern opens and is lock'd within, 
Thence we can watch the motions of our friends, 
And at the moment lend our sudden aid, 
When it can most avail — on — on and up ! 
Now, Michael, here's the closing of thy jests, 
Or making of thee! — Fortune hold thy friend, 
There's not a sober man in Altorf but 
Would wear thy brows, for all their cap and bells ! 

[Exeunt. 



SCENE III. — A Mountain, with a view of the Lake 
of Lucerne. 

Enter Emma, leading Old Melctal. 

O. M. I keep thee back ? 

Emma. No — no ! 

O.M. I'm sure I do. 

Emma. And if you do, it matters not — we 've gain'd 

The cliff. — Should Erni come, how lies the track 

From this he'll take? 
O. M. The lake's in view ? 

Emma. It i s . 

O. M. Then set me fronting it. Now, as I point, 

See'st thou the shoulder of a wooded hill 



78 WILLIAM TELL. £*ct v. 

That overlooks the rest ? 
Emma. I see it well. 

O. M. Another hill 's in front of it? 
Emma. There is. 

O. M. His track lies o'er the verge of that same hill, 

And so exact from this, what moves upon 't 

Is plainly seen betwixt the sky and you. 

Discern you aught upon 't ? 
Emma. I think I do. 

Yes — yes, I do. There, father, there! — O, father ! 

Forgive me that the mother and the wife 

Forgot jour eyes were out! 
O. M. Thou may 'st forget 

What I forget myself with care for thee. 

What dost thou see upon that hill, my child ? 
Emma. Figures of men in motion; but as dim 

As shadows yet. 
O.M. 'TisErni! O that I 

Had eyes to see the shadow of my child ! 

O blest are they that see! — they twice embrace 

The precious things they love. — If it be they, 

They '11 soon be here. 
Emma, Too late, I fear, too late 

To save my husband and my child. Why fled 

The churl soon as he told us they were in 

The tyrant's power ? 
O* M. Blame not his haste, my child ; 

'Twas sure for good. 
Emma. I see a bark upon 

The lake. How oft has William cross' d that lake ! 

He '11 cross it ne'er again. 
O. M. Have hope — have hope. 

Emma. Father! 
O. M. My child ? 

Emma. I think I see the gleam 

Of lances in the bark — I 'm sure I do ! 
O. M. Likely, my child : the tyrant and his guards 

Perhaps are there. He has a hold, you know, 

Upon the lake — a castle, stronger far 

Than that at Altorf. 
Emma, Father — father ! 

O. M. What?— 



icesk Hi.] WILLIAM TELL. 72 

What moves you so, my child : 
Emma The form of him 

Who steers the bark is like — 
0.31. Like whose? 

Emma. My husband's ! 

Yes — yes ! 'Tis William ! — So he holds the helm 
I 'd know-him at the helm from any man 
That ever steer'd a bark upon the lake! 
I fear — I fear! — 
O. 31. What is 't you fear, my daughter .- 

Is 't the lake ? 
Emma. No — no! The lake is rough, 

Chafed with the storm of yesternight — 'tis rough ; 
But 'tis not that I fear. What business have 
The lances in that bark ? What's that he does? 
He steers her right upon a rock! — 'Tis in 
Despair; and there he '11 die before my eyes! — 
Ha! what! — What's that? He springs upon 

the rock! 
He flies ! — he's free ! — but they pursue him ! Stay 
here. 
O. M. What would 'st thou do, my child ? 
Emma. Fly to his aid. 

O. 31. Alas ! what aid can you afford to him ? 
Emma. Cling to the foremost of his murderers. 
O. M. And help them so to surely stop his flight. 

\Y T ould he not cling to you? 
Emma. Alas! he would. 

What should I do r 
O. 31. See how our friends come on. 

If it was they, they should be nearer now. 
Emma. They are! — They are ! 

O. M. Let's haste to meet them, then. 

The track — the track ! Is't this way? Come, 

my child ; 
I'll show thee where — if thou wilt stand, and 

wave them, 
They 're sure to see thee. Let us trust to them 
For aid. Don't look behind. Come on— come on ! 

[Exeunt. 



80 WILLIAM TELL. [act v. 

Enter Tell from an eminence. 

Tell. Whene'er I choose, I have the speed of them. 
Nor dare they shoot : so oft as they prepare, 
If I but bend my bow, the terror of 
The deadly aim alone transfixes them, 
That down they drop their weapons by their sides, 
And stand at gaze, with lapsed power, as tho' 
In every heart an arrow from my bow 
8tood quivering'. I knew that beetling cliff 
Would cost them breath to climb. They top it now. 
Ha ! [Bends his bow.] Have I brought you to a 

stand again ? 
I '11 keep you there, to give your master time 
To breathe. Poor slaves ! no game are you for 

me ; 
But could I draw the tyrant on that shrinks 
Behind you — There he is ! I '11 take yon crag, 
From which a leap, they dare not take, at once 
Enables me to distance them, and there 
Bring him to parly. [Ascends the crag. 

Enter Archers and Spearmen, followed by Gesler. 

Ges. Wherefore do you fly ? 

Tell. Wherefore do you pursue me ? Said you not 
You 'd give me liberty, if thro' the storm 
I safely steer' d your prow ? The waves did then 
Lash over you ; your pilot left the helm ; • 
I took it, and they rear'd their heads no more, 
Unless to bow them and give way to me 
And let your pinnace on. You did repeat 
Your promise, as you trembling lay along 
The bottom of the bark, and scann'd the looks 
Of your pale crew that shrunk, while fiercer wax'd 
The fury of the wind, and to its height 
The roaring of the angry thunder rose, 
Through which I brought you as through savage 

foes, 
My friends, that for my sake forbore. You twice 
Promised me liberty. I only take 



scene iv.] WILLIAM TELL. 81 

What you did promise? 
Ges. Traitor, 'twas your place 

To wait ray time. 
Tell. It would have been, had I 

Believed that time would come. If I 'm a prize 

Worthy to take, why hang you thus behind 

Your minions ? Why not lead the chase yourself? 

Lack you the manhood e'en to breast the spout 

You love! 
Ges. Transfix the slave wj$i all your darts 

At once. 
Tell. Ha ! 

[Takes aim again — they drop their weapons, 
which they had half raised?. 

FoHew me ! Keen huntsmen they 
The game itself must urge. Keep up the chase! 
Ges. You keep too close together. Spread yourselves, 
That some of you may hit him unawares. 
His quiver full of ducats to the man 
That brings him down. On, cowards — on, I say \ 

[Exeunt. 



SCENE THE LAST.— The outside of Gesler's 
Castle — the drawbridge up — the ducal banner of 
Austria hoisted — the ramparts lined with archers 
and spearmen. Sarnem, Rodolph, Gerard, and 
Lutold, on the top of an advanced bastion. In 
the front Verner, Theodore, and Pierre, with 
Burghers, anfd Furst, with Mountaineers, all 
armed. 

Sar. What means this hostile show ? Speak, burg- 
hers, why 

Before these walls assemble ye in arms ? 
Ver. To drive the spoilers of our country from 

Their hold, avenge her cruel wrongs, and set 

Her children free ! 
Sar. Be warn'd in time ! — Disperse ! — 

Your homes ! your homes ! or not a man of you 

But treads upon his grave. 



82 WILLIAM TELL. [act y. 

Ver. Take warning thou ! 

Of thee and every soul that with thee bides 
That castle is the tomb, unless you straight 
Surrender William Tell ! — Is he alive ? — ■ 
Give up our countryman — We '11 treat with thee 
For but the sake of sparing human blood ! 

Sar. Traitor, he is not here. 

He lives — But for your threat, to show you what 's 
Its weight — Behold his son ! 

[Albert is led forward by the Headsman, 
with a drawn sword. 

And heed how he's 

Attended I Mind ! the gnomon 's on the hour : 

If when it ring's a single soul remains 

Of those rebellious bands, the headsman does 

His office. — Mark me further, renegade ! 

Gesler is at his castle on the lake, 

Where lies thy countryman, in chains, last night 

Transported thither — whom the torture hath 

Confess'd. — The governor is master of 

Your plans; and, reinforc'd" is on his way — 

Tell rushes in, followed by Erni and Mountaineers. 

Tell. Villain, 'tis false !— Alive thou ne'er shalt see 
Thy master more ! — An arrow from this bow 
Hath felt the last throb of the tyrant's heart. 
Proceed to the assault. 

Ver. See ! William— see ! 

Sar. A single arrow drawn, he dies. 

Tell, [confused] How 's this ? 

Ver. Yes, William, 'tis thy son. I know not how 
He fell into their power. 

Tell. I see him not ! 

I see my country, Verner, not my son ! 

She holds her arms to me— with piteous cries, 

Recounts her children's wrongs— shows me the 

hands 
Of free-born sons, festering in chains—the locks 
Of hoary parents steep'd in their own blood ; 
And tangled tresses of her daughters, torn 



scene iv.] WILLIAM TEfcL. 83 

By hands that did despoil them of the gem 
Life has no price to name for. I 've no son, 
Ye men of Switzerland ! Look there, and see 
Your tyrant's hold — Who'll draw an arrow first ? 
Will none dispute the glory of the deed 
With Tell ? There then ! 

Tell shoots, and the Headsman falls. — The 
hour is rung — Michael, Jagheli, and 

their friends , rush out upon the ram- 
parts, and some secure Sarnem and his 

Officers, while others rapidly lower the 
portcullis. — Tell, entering the fortress 
over the bridge, with his friends, strikes 
down the Austrian banner, and, hurrying 
on, receives Albert from Michael.- En- 
ter on each s^Emma and Old Melch- 
tal, Agnes, Anneli, awrf Waldman. 

Tell. My country 's free ! 

[A burst of exultation from the Swiss, 

Save what is shed, we win 
A bloodless victory. We'll temper vengeance 
With mercy — A.ustrians, you '11 quit a land 
You never had a right to— and you'll learn 
A country 's never lost that hath a son 
To wrestle with the tyrant who 'd enslave her. 



THE END- 






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